


Sequencing

by Seselt



Series: Denouement [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Honeymoon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:54:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 36,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seselt/pseuds/Seselt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little more of the married life of Hermione Flint, righter of wrongs and mother of four.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Honeymoon

20th September 2004

 

“We could have flown here.” Hermione, in a sarong, remarked to her very new husband. They lay on towels on a white sand beach in a secluded limestone bay surrounded by mangroves. It had rained that morning, easing the humidity and leaving the trees glistening emerald.

“We could.” Marcus agreed. He lay on his stomach, stretched the length of his towel with his toes digging idly in the warm sand. “Portkey was better.”

“You didn't mind the flight from Toronto.” She reminded him, fishing around in their charmed cool box for a drink. Hermione had packed everything they might need so they wouldn't have to leave their island retreat for supplies. She found a jug of Pimm's and poured two glasses.

“That was first class, and if Theo could do it so could I.” He had agreed because his friend's Squib cousin had expected them to refuse. Philip Nott was not an unpleasant man but he had not forgiven his family for ostracising him. When they had gone to Canada in person to persuade him to petition to take his mother's family Seat in the Wizengamot, their welcome had been chilly.

“We could've flown first class London to Seoul.” Hermione passed Marcus his glass and sipped hers, casting another charm to create a light breeze to stir the humid air. “Or preferably business class, and not been too self-indulgent.”

“Justin said he nearly parted company with his knees on the flight to Koror.” Marcus propped himself up on an elbow to drink and ogle his witch. They had stripped down to their skin to swim in the bay. The only thing between him and her now was a length of brightly printed cotton.

“He's as tall as you are.” The witch conceded. She was short enough that economy airline seats did not bother her. Marcus needed leg room. Hermione noticed the direction of his gaze and pressed her cold glass against her sternum. Condensation ran down her skin. Her husband leaned in to chase the water droplets with his tongue.

She ran her fingers through his short black hair, her grip tightening as his mouth made a leisurely journey over the swell of her breasts. Marcus was never in any hurry when he was seducing her. Hermione liked that in a lover. She needed a little time to turn off her internal monologue, though what she was mostly thinking right now was 'mmm, yes'.

He kissed his way down to her crux and after he started using his tongue Hermione had no trouble not thinking of any distractions. She lay back staring at fluffy white clouds in a sapphire sky until she gasped, shuddered and her eyes squeezed shut.

Marcus pushed her knees apart after her legs clamped against his head, climbing on top of her. He liked doing a job well and feeling Hermione's wet heat fluttering around him as he slid inside her was his reward.

“Fuck.” Hermione moaned as he rubbed his thumb around her sensitised clitoris. He knew that made her shiver from head to toe and clench against him. She wrapped her legs around his hips, rocking hers in the slow rhythm that made him groan.

They made love languidly under the tropical sun with charms to keep their skin from burning. They lay together sated, brushing sand off sweaty skin and eating fruit salad. Marcus traded his mango for her pineapple, not understanding why Hermione snickered until she demonstrated for what purpose a considerate man might eat pineapple.

Feeling somewhat spent, the wizard had one of the sports drinks his wife frankly nagged him to take to his Quidditch games. Marcus had to admit the faux-orange beverage was refreshing. He had taken a crate with him for the team when Montrose played a few friendly matches with the Australian League. No one had got heat stroke that tour despite record temperatures.

“We must give Neville and Hannah a nice present.” Hermione mused as she finished her salad. Two weeks with no one owling, calling, knocking, Flooing, Apparating in or flying by would be bliss.

“I think spending a few hours as us would be gift enough.” Marcus shook out his towel downwind then spread it out again so he could lie on his back and do absolutely nothing. He did not need to look to guess Hermione's expression.

Their wedding in the grounds of Flint Manor had been private and perfect. Marcus's family had kept many Saxon traditions, which he and Hermione had adapted. Instead of him and his thanes presenting themselves to her father, Marcus and his Slytherin cronies had gone to Minerva McGonagall to ask for her blessing. Forewarned by her protégé, the Professor had kept the wizards waiting for hours to test his mettle before giving her approval.

Marcus paid the handgeld due to Hermione's family as a scholarship in her parents' names for a financially disadvantaged student to study Dentistry at their alma mater. Hermione paid her own dowry into the Hogwarts' Reconstruction Fund. The morning gift from groom to bride after the wedding night had been his mother's wand; the key to the Flint chatelaine vault.

The ceremony itself had been simple. On her birthday, Marcus and Hermione with two witnesses, Neville and Harry, had sworn a blood oath in front of the great hearth. The Manor had accepted the new Madam Flint with a hungry longing. They had barely had to change the wards to respond to Hermione.

Their problems had started with the reception. There had been some discussion, well, frankly they had argued, about where to host the cocktail party celebrating their union. Flint Manor was an obvious choice, except many of the veterans of the wars against Voldemort refused to visit the home of a Death Eater.

A Muggle location was right out as alcohol, sheltered pure-bloods and the Statute of Secrecy did not mix well. Marcus also vetoed Hogwarts for unlike Hermione, his schooling had not been a source of joy and validation for him. She had vetoed any Quidditch stadiums despite the high likelihood of many of their guests bringing brooms to the party.

Hannah Longbottom solved their problem by suggesting her new business venture; the Leaky Cauldron. It was central, no one would need Portkeys and no matter how hammered any of the guests got they would be able to Floo home.

Marcus objected until Hannah gave him a tour of the renovated pub. She had kept the comfortable feel of the place but had cleaned it up, added a patio garden and had definitely improved the food. Plus they could book the whole building, turning it into a 'private family event' solving any legal issues for any guests still on Ministry parole.

They had charmed a stereo to play Muggle music, and one of the highlights of Hermione's evening had been watching the Slytherins waltz to 'Devil's Dance Floor' by Flogging Molly. Hermione had been laughing with Kingsley Shacklebolt when she had caught the flash of a camera and had realised despite everyone's efforts to keep the reporters away someone had snuck in.

The throng of press outside the Leaky Cauldron spilled out on both sides of Diagon Alley. The Muggle police were called to quell what they thought was a riot and the Aurors came to disperse anyone without an invitation.

The next morning the newspapers were so full of the 'Fairytale Wedding' and 'Gryffindor Golden Girl Marries Montrose Menace' and even more purple prose they were mobbed when they went to the Ministry to collect their Portkey. They had to flee the building and take refuge in a Muggle newsagent under Disillusionment Charms.

Marcus had been all for hexing their way through the reporters, curious onlookers and frankly opinionated bystanders. Hermione had text messaged Hannah, who could got decent telephone reception when she was close to the front door of the Cauldron. Neville, Harry and the blonde witch had come to their rescue.

Two doses of Polyjuice had diverted the press and an invisibility cloak had got them to the Department of Magical Transportation. The international Portkey had left them feeling turned inside out but they had arrived on Melekerai with all their limbs attached and blessedly alone.

“I was thinking of something more domestic.” Hermione hinted. Marcus continued to lie there supine. She nudged him with her foot and got no response. Nudging again, she yelped when he caught her ankle to tickle her sole.

The witch laughed and shrieked, and nearly kicked him in the head accidentally, as he tickled her into submission. Lying panting in the sand, Hermione made a face at him as Marcus flopped down beside her.

“Neville said they were discussing an heir.” He curled his fingers in her untamed hair. “The Longbottoms are healthy enough but the Abbotts are erratic, prone to magical surges particularly in pregnancy.” Kissing her cheek, he smirked. “You wanted me to talk to my cousin. So we talk.”

“Hannah and I chatted about it too. They're going to live above the pub so I thought we could give them the materiel for privacy wards, maybe offer to pay for the casting.” She suggested. Neville had a reasonable job as an assistant Herbologist for an alchemical company and the Leaky was a good earner for Hannah, but they had paid out a lot of their savings buying the business.

“Better than a silver teething ring.” Marcus agreed. His eyes strayed down her body to her stomach. They had talked about their own children in the abstract, more to do with timing than housing. Flint Manor was large enough they could have ten children and still have to shout to find one.

“I wouldn't mind a break from academia.” Hermione followed his gaze, putting her palm flat on her belly button and imagining being pregnant. “We can get a Muggle check-up, they test for all sorts of things, then start trying over the Yule holiday. You'll be home. It'll be cosy”

“Cosy.” The pure-blood scion of the House of Flint bared his teeth at his wife. “Cosy is for blankets.” He put his hand on hers, interlacing their fingers. “Cosy will get us a Hufflepuff. Mad passion and French lingerie is more my plan.”

“Mad passion sounds Gryffindor.” She teased, aware he only tolerated most of her former House-mates. “We'll need the Kama Sutra if we want a Ravenclaw.” At his raised eyebrow, she explained. “It's not just a sex manual. Actually, it's a very interesting sociological document. That just happens to have many instructional pictures.”

“I would not mind a Ravenclaw. A studious Flint would Stupefy the Hogwarts staff. McGonagall would be shocked out of her tartan.” Marcus had never got along with the Scottish witch, not least when his team beat her precious lions on the Quidditch pitch.

“We'll probably need to try bondage to get a Slytherin.” Hermione contemplated, idly crossing her wrists. She looked her husband over meeting his intense stare. “Fancy being tied to our bed for a long term experiment?”

Yes, oh, yes, he did. Over the course of their two week honeymoon, Marcus strove to assist his wife in her scientific research in so many ways. They even managed to have sex in a hammock without falling out, though Hermione considered their interlude in the rainstorm to be the peak of their debauchery.

The couple returned to autumn in England. Marcus played Quidditch. Hermione ran the estate, collated her university notes, sat in the Wizengamot and conspired to change the world. She spent most of October feeling tired and seedy but didn't pay any particular notice to that as it was flu season, until she missed her period.

After spending a year starving hungry, her menstrual cycle had never returned to regularity. She had tried to fix that with Muggle contraceptives but the pill didn't agree with her. They didn't always remember to use the Contraception Charm in the heat of the moment, so Hermione took the potion on the first of every month.

She had taken a dose with her on their honeymoon and had drunk it. So when the witch saw the double pink line on the plastic stick, her first thought was to curse the lack of production standards in wizarding manufacture. Her second thought was to wonder what had specifically gone wrong with her potion. Her third thought was 'oh my god, baby'.

“Well, that was easy.” Marcus said after she told him. They sat on a bench in the denuded arbour, scrunching their feet through drifting leaves. “Are you feeling alright?”

“A bit surprised.” Hermione admitted. “I know we talked about it but I wanted to prepare more.” Her mouth tightened into a determined expression. “And I am going to speak with the Potioneers Society about labelling and quality control. Apparently, some tropical fruit enzymes can interfere with the Contraceptive potion.”

“Bloody mangoes.” He had never liked them but he might have to reconsider that stance. Marcus held his wife's hand. “What do you need me to do?”

“We'll tell everyone at Christmas. Until then keep it to yourself, just in case.” She felt a deep pang. Her mother was not here. Neither was Marcus's. Her nearest maternal role-model, Molly Weasley, was still treating her like the Whore of Babylon. “I'm nervous, Marcus.”

“We will take that in shifts.” He put his arms around her, holding her tight. “You worry through the pregnancy. Mothers are supposed to do that. I will worry while the baby is little.” Flint children often died young. He would lie awake sweating thinking of all the little portraits in the Long Gallery. “Then by the time our child is about five, it will be your turn again.”

“Okay.” Hermione took a deep breath. They could do this. She hugged her husband close. They could do this together.


	2. Samhain

29th October 2005

 

Hermione and Harry stepped through the Floo onto the flint hearthstones of the main manorial fireplace. It was not the Great Hearth, the surviving remnant of the original Saxon building, but it was an imposing construction of dark greenish stone. The Flints had never been a demure family.

“Child-proofing this house has been a nightmare.” Hermione unlatched the hinged fire-screen and held it open for her friend to follow before securing it firmly. Her daughter wasn't crawling yet but she would be soon.

“Good afternoon, Madam Flint.” A house elf in a clean toga made from a tablecloth appeared from nowhere. Harry got a crisp once-over then a nod as the little creature stood placidly with hands folded. “Good afternoon, Mister Potter.”

“Good afternoon, Treacle.” The witch greeted the elf politely. She unfastened her cloak and hung it up on the iron hat-stand to the right of the hearth. Harry, accustomed to this ritual, did the same. “Where's everyone?”

“The old gentleman is having a nap. Frumenty took Mrs Shaw home, with the cupcakes madam asked us if we would mind making.” Treacle reported, ignoring Harry's hastily suppressed snigger. Hermione and the Flint elves had reached an accord but there were still teething problems. “The young gentleman is with the little Miss in the green parlour. Treacle will fetch tea for Madam and her guest.”

“Thank you.” Hermione always remembered to thank the house elves for everything they did for her. The entire household had fallen over themselves to fuss over her while she was pregnant, and they continued to hover until she reminded them of their rota. Treacle vanished, leaving the witch to glare at her best friend.

“Got them in a Union yet?” Harry laughed in spite of her expression. He was so wound up from work that he would laugh at anything right now but Hermione's grumbled reply had him chuckling all down the hall.

“I read everything I could about the covenants between wizards and house elves, which took some doing as most families keep that sort of thing very private.” She had been unwilling to surrender her principles on the matter however. “The Flint covenant is old, blood magic and what I could find written down was in futhorc. Stop laughing!”

“I'm sorry.” He gulped, taking a deep breath. “I thought you were paying them. That it was sorted.”

“I am paying them. They just don't take the money.” Hermione sighed. “The covenants, the old ones done correctly not just bodged together with compulsion magic, are symbiotic. Wages are meaningless. I still worked out decent salaries for everyone, and that money goes into their piggy banks every week.”

“They don't have accounts at Gringotts?” Harry asked then interpreted from the grim set of her mouth that the answer was both 'no' and 'don't ask'. That would be another battle in Hermione's campaign.

“I'm pretty sure they magic the coins back into the household vault.” The witch confessed on another sigh. “I did win on the 'mistress' and 'master' nonsense. But I'm fairly sure they're just playing along because they like spoiling Livia.”

“She's surprisingly cute for the daughter of a troll.” He joked. Harry had been the first to visit Hermione after she'd given birth. He'd had to nearly pry the baby out of Marcus's arms but holding his god-daughter, he had realised he would do anything to protect her. Just like her mother had protected him.

The green parlour was named for the many potted plants rather than the colour of the décor. Most of the furnishings were plain wood or undyed cloth, chosen to be easily cleaned in proximity to earth. The only splash of colour not from the flowers was the play-mat on the floor.

Upon which Marcus Flint lay shirtless with his daughter happily drooling on then dropping toys for her father to pick up and hand to her. Best game ever, judging from the baby's babbling.

“Livia does not like mashed peas.” Marcus informed his wife as she picked up their child from the floor. Livia waved a plastic ring at her mother then dropped it, giggling. Her father picked it up then stood, eyeing Harry still in his Auror's uniform.

“We'll try her on some other foods. She might like zucchini.” Hermione flicked her wand at the green stained shirt her husband had casually tossed aside. Watching her daughter, the witch cast a cleaning charm. “Scourgify.”

Livia burst into tears. Hermione nodded at Marcus as he put his shirt back on while she joggled and soothed their daughter. The baby settled quickly, her dark eyes fixing on Harry over her mother's shoulder.

“Does that always happen?” The Auror asked, making funny faces. Livia chortled.

“Yes.” Marcus answered bluntly. Harry pretended not to see Hermione shoot her husband a stern look. They got along alright when they remembered to be civil. “We think she feels the magic.”

“We're not sure if it's surprise or pain yet. We're being careful. It could be a focus harmonic from our wands as Livia's fine around the house elves.” The witch handed her daughter to her best friend then kissed her husband. Harry pretended not to see that either, mostly because Flint always smirked at him afterwards.

“Millie's researching it for us as part of her apprenticeship.” Marcus said, almost pleasantly as he hugged his wife. He was happy. He still expected to wake up from the dream but he could deal with that the same way he dealt with most things that annoyed him; hit it or grit his teeth until it went away.

Harry made a non-committal noise in the midst of baby-talking to Livia. Bulstrode was staying at Flint Manor while she studied. They'd spoken a few times, enough for him to notice she seemed much easier to get along with than she had at school. She and Hermione were apparently quite chummy now.

“Jennifer has all the baby books and magazines. She might know something.” Harry remarked suddenly after they had sat down for tea. He wolfed down two sandwiches having missed lunch. And breakfast, if he thought about it.

“Who is Jennifer?” Marcus asked as Hermione passed Harry the plate of shortbread. Although the former Slytherin was very fond of shortbread, he made no protest as the Chosen One ate all of it. His wife was right; Potter was working too hard. He had agreed to have him stay for the weekend because Hermione was on the point of spiking her friend's tea with Dreamless Sleep.

“Ron's wife.” Harry said around a biscuit, making an attempt at manners. “She's nice. Mellow. Sort of reminds me of Luna, except less batty.”

“Luna isn't batty.” Hermione defended the Ravenclaw automatically. Marcus kept his silence again, aware that his friend Lucian had sent the witch a bouquet of fish. Which she had apparently received gladly.

“Last time I saw her, she was walking a wild cat through the Ministry.” He liked Luna, he truly did, but there were times where he suspected she was winding them all up. “She said she was refining their technique.”

“If the cat was a lynx, it was probably Lucian Bole. They're putting together an expedition to Kazakhstan.” She poured tea as she debated with herself whether she wanted to inquire about Ron. Periodically since their breakup, Hermione had tried to reach out to reconnect and had been ignored every time.

“They're doing well, Ron and Jenny.” Harry heard what the witch wasn't asking. “She's pregnant again. Thinking about moving to the States so the kids can go to the Roswell Institute. The curriculum there is more modern, apparently.”

“Molly isn't going to like that. She always gave Charlie a hard time about working in Romania.” Hermione wondered how much the option to move was weighted with a desire to avoid Ron's kids being pointed out as celebrities as Harry had been. Witch Weekly ran a 'Children of the Heroes' exposé whenever the paper wanted to drum up sales.

“That's why they're mentioning it now. They've got eight years to talk her around.” His tone understandably turned sour at mention of his former mother-in-law. He had been cut off completely after his divorce. The hardest thing about that, beyond the rejection, was apologising to Hermione. He understood now what she had gone through.

“Never going to happen.” Hermione asserted, more bitter than she liked. “Ron doesn't have the balls to defy his mother.”

“His wife might.” Marcus brushed a strand of her hair off her face, tucking it behind her ear with a slow caress. “You did. Blackmailed her too.”

“If this is some weird Slytherin foreplay, we can leave the room.” Harry offered, waving to Livia where she lay on her play-mat trying to taste her feet.

“Marcus was unconscious. He doesn't know what he's talking about.” The witch said briskly, happy to change the subject. “We haven't got much planned for the weekend. Millie's on a double shift tomorrow so it'll be just us.”

“I'd like to visit my parents. If I go a day early, I might escape the reporters.” Spending all his time at work helped him avoid the press but it was always bad this time of year. Harry had taken to carrying a flask of Polyjuice with him wherever he went.

“It'll be bedlam next year, for the twenty-fifth anniversary.” Hermione grimaced, reaching across the coffee table to squeeze his hand. “Any time you need a break, just come here. This place is a fortress.”

“Thanks.” Harry said gratefully. He did look aside at Marcus, expecting a smirk. He got a nod of consent instead.

That acceptance seemed to bring home to the Auror how tired he was. He apologised but Hermione waved aside any suggestion he need stay up. She showed him to his room, promised to keep some dinner warm for him then left him to sleep. Downstairs, Marcus poured the rest of Harry's tea into a pot plant just in case his wife had doctored it.

Harry got sixteen hours of much needed rest before Hermione reluctantly woke him. A patronus from Kingsley urgently demanded his presence at the Ministry. She had cleaned his clothes and packed him a hamper of food, which he was to eat.

“Yes, mum.” Harry suffered an aggrieved swat and a hug, then changed into yesterday's clothes to face today's crisis. With Livia on her hip, Hermione waved him good-bye and felt no ominous portents at all.

In fact, she had a rather nice day playing with her daughter then going for a stroll in the gardens planning out an expansion of the kitchen yard so they could grow their own vegetables. And fooling around with her husband like naughty teenagers once the baby lay down for her nap.

Everything was fine until seven o'clock when a Patronus from Kingsley came for her. The Aurors were still chasing Death Eaters, who were getting increasingly vicious and desperate. Harry's team had raided a location in Muggle London expecting one target and stumbled across a safe house full of them.

Two Aurors had been killed and Harry had taken a Dark curse to the chest before the building had caught fire. He was in St. Mungo's.

It was Millicent who met her as she almost ran out of the Floo. Millicent, streaked with soot and bloody to the elbows, who said Harry was alive. Hermione went to him, holding his bled-pale hand and told him he would be fine while Healers worked frantically to ensure she wasn't a liar.

In fits and snatches, Hermione got more details. The back-up Auror team had arrived quickly with a Medi-witch but had been pinned down by hexes from the wizards in the burning building. Harry had been lying in a pool of his own blood in plain sight of them but no one could reach him until the Medi-witch had run, in full view of the Death Eaters, to drag Harry into cover.

Millicent had done it.

Millicent now hovered at Hermione's elbow, keyed up and worried that she hadn't done enough. Hadn't been fast enough or her triage spells strong enough or that someone would think she had deliberately let Harry Potter die. Because she was a Slytherin who couldn't be trusted to care.

Harry didn't die.

He woke up the next morning feeling like he had been sat on by a dragon. As it was hardly his first awakening in hospital, the wizard did a quick survey of his person, which was intact, and his surroundings. Which were occupied by Hermione, Flint and baby Livia.

“Buchanon? Goshawk?” Harry asked hoarsely. He closed his eyes after Hermione shook her head, rousing for a second time when someone shook his shoulder. He looked up into the pensive, concerned face of a witch that was not Hermione.

“I need to give you some potions.” Millicent spoke slowly and enunciated carefully, stepping back from the bed so he didn't feel threatened. “I can fetch a Healer if you want to make sure I am not trying to poison you.”

“Do you want to poison me?” He asked, blearily. His eyes could focus but his mind was not so sharp. Harry guessed he was dosed with rather a lot of something good when he caught himself staring at Bulstrode's arse when she turned to leave the room.

She wasn't wearing robes, just a skirt and blouse, and the full curve of her hips pulled the material taut across her rump. Ginny had always trained hard to keep fit, particularly with Molly's cooking. There hadn't been much of her to cuddle. Bulstrode looked good to hug.

Harry was still mulling that observation when the witch returned with a Healer, who explained carefully why he needed to drink the potions. He nodded compliance as he wanted to get out of hospital before recent prolonged chastity caused him to say something stupid.

St Mungo's discharged him into Hermione's custody despite his protests that he needed to go to work. Kingsley put him firmly on leave and Flint threatened to carry him bodily through the Floo if he didn't go quietly.

Hermione had brought his things from his little flat and made a guest room comfy. Harry had every intention of defying them, of sneaking out once he could stand without feeling woozy. He managed to get as far as the stairs on his first attempt, only to have Bulstrode haul him back to bed and tuck him in.

“Give up on being a hero, Potter.” She said brusquely, touching her palm to his forehead. He was warm but not fevered. The Medi-witch frowned at him. “If you promise to lie there and let yourself mend, I won't tell Hermione you tried to escape.”

“Two of my team are dead. I need to help.” Harry sat up, trying to hide how drained that movement made him feel. He had been pushing himself pretty hard since the divorce. His job was the only thing in his life that made sense.

“They'll still be dead tomorrow.” Millicent was blunt and met Harry's pugnacious glare without faltering. “I know it is not a nice thing to say but it needs saying. Your recovery takes priority over theirs.” She took a breath, feeling momentarily sick. “And if they were your friends, you do not want to see them like that.”

“You did?” He asked, surprising himself. He had been about to demand what she knew about Auror business but had luckily caught himself. Harry had never liked Bulstrode. Something in her manner made him sympathise, though. She was not so brisk as she pretended.

“Yes.” The witch answered simply.

It seemed pathetically inadequate to say 'sorry' or 'thank you'. Harry subsided into the pillows. Millicent sat guard duty in an armchair nearby, pulling out a textbook. She ignored him watching her read until she saw his smirk in her peripheral vision.

“I can get you something to read, if you like. Hermione has expanded the Flint library three-fold. Even Octavius noticed.” The Flints had accumulated books more by default than inclination but they were an old family who defended what they had.

“Does it feel odd to call use her first name? I keep expecting you to call her Granger.” Harry put that idle question down to the mellowing effects of the potions. He couldn't remember ever having chatted with Bulstrode... Millicent before.

“She is a Flint now. Marcus gets rather intense on that subject, so for him I make the effort.” Hiding a smile, the witch did not mention seeing her cousin grinning like an idiot the afternoon after Granger had agreed to become a Flint again. She had never seen Marcus so happy.

“I suggested she hyphenate her name. It's a modern thing to do.” He had also suggested she get her head checked when Hermione had phoned him to break the news of her engagement. “She said Granger-Flint sounded like a quarry.”

“It does.” Millicent chuckled softly. Harry smiled at the gentle sound, drifting into slumber again obscurely reassured by the unexpected camaraderie. When she as sure he was asleep, the Medi-witch adjusted the pillows so he could lie more comfortably. And privately admitted to herself that she didn't mind looking after him.


	3. Handfasting

30th April 2007

 

Hermione flicked the riding crop against the sleek PVC of her thigh boots and tried not to chuckle. She was to be a stern mistress this evening. The witch stuck out her tongue at her husband, tied with red ribbons to the bedposts.

“I expect you to behave tomorrow.” Hermione ordered, trailing the crop along Marcus's stomach. He tensed with anticipation. They had played this game only few times, when they had leisure to prolong their fun. Which was infrequent with a small child in the house.

Octavius and Livia had gone to bed early in expectation of a busy Beltane. House elves were stationed outside their doors in case of emergencies, though both the Flint patriarch and the toddler usually slept peacefully.

“Is that an order?” Marcus inquired, his eyes roving insolently over his wife's body. The boots had a matching shiny corset, which Hermione usually wore with one of her racier sets of lingerie. Not tonight. Five months pregnant with their second child, Hermione had opted for a red silk robe, tied loosely just above her baby bump.

“Oh yes.” Her tone was vexed and Marcus got a cautionary tap from the crop as Hermione adjusted the robe to hide more of her breasts. She had filled out quite a bit while nursing Livia and weaning had not returned her to adolescent perkiness. The witch was somewhat self-conscious about her new assets. Her husband's ogling helped remind her he was being punished.

“I grovel, my lady.” The wizard apologised, not entirely hiding his grin. Hermione stepped closer to the bed, caressing his muscular chest with the leather tip of the crop.

“Who gave you permission to speak, pet?” She asked mildly, doing some ogling of her own. Marcus kept himself fit playing in a recreational Quidditch league, gardening and minding their daughter. They did yoga together at a Muggle gym, though Hermione had yet to convince him that wasn't solely to keep limber for private moments like this.

Marcus kept his mouth shut as she had commanded him to be silent while she had tied him, not tightly, to the bed. One too many smirking comments about Gryffindors and nervous grooms had irritated his wife. So he was being shown how to behave.

They both enjoyed her teasing him; Hermione because she liked control with explicit consent and Marcus because he had rarely been denied anything. The witch made him hold the crop between his teeth as she pulled on a pair of long crimson gloves, making a show of smoothing her hands up her arms.

And not touching him.

Marcus swallowed as he began to drool. Teeth clenching on the springy haft of the crop, he stared as Hermione toyed with the sash of her robe. She untied then retied it. She shifted her weight onto one hip, dropping a shoulder so the wide neck of the garment gaped bearing skin.

“Are you going to be a good boy at the ceremony?” The witch inquired sweetly, examining her glossy fingertips. Marcus nodded firmly. One finger at a time, Hermione wrapped her hand around his erection. She stroked once up and down then stopped. “I do not think I believe you.”

Marcus gritted his teeth hard enough for the crop to bend. She jerked it out of his mouth and flicked one of his nipples. He started to sweat.

They had discussed this. Hermione did nothing without research and she had investigated the protocols of bondage thoroughly. They had played with the crop before but this was the first time she had actually really struck him with it. It stung. He was not sure he liked that.

Then she rubbed her palm over his stiffened nipple and a surge of blood made his cock bob. Marcus nodded to Hermione when she met his gaze waiting for confirmation he was okay with what she had done. She flicked his other nipple, circling her fingers around it.

“I promise to be a perfect gentleman at Millie's wedding.” Marcus vowed, a little hoarsely. His compassionate and fair-minded wife brushed the crop over his glans in an unspoken chastisement. He corrected himself hurriedly. “I promise to be a perfect gentleman at Millie and Harry's wedding.”

“No Cowardly Lion remarks? No offers to dress up as a Dementor to encourage my best friend to, I quote, 'get his wand out'?” Hermione caressed the leather keeper down his shaft, nudging his balls. She knew he knew she would never hit him there but the illusory threat made him inhale sharply.

“Best behaviour.” He promised sincerely. Hermione languidly dropped the crop and straddled him, planting one foot flat on the bed so she could get the angle right. She was careful as her stomach got in the way as she guided him inside her. Settling slowly astride his hips, the witch blew him a kiss.

“That wasn't so difficult, now was it?” Hermione shed her robe gradually. Padma Nott's hen's night had featured a burlesque dancer, who had taught the guests a few moves guaranteed to catch the interest of their partners. A little shimmy now and some coy touches had Hermione trying not to laugh at herself, and Marcus trying not to snap the ribbons.

The witch pleasured herself while her husband watched pretending to be helpless. Neither of them liked hard restraints or any suggestion of coercion. If he had to, Marcus could break free. Similarly, when it had been Hermione's turn, only her ankles had been secured. She had wrapped her wrists in a loop of ribbon and held on while her 'captor' had kissed every inch of her skin.

“Please.” Marcus panted, after she had stopped again just as he was getting close. “Snitch.” He used his safe word. Hermione might privately roll her eyes at his choice of a Quidditch-related phrase but she respected his request for her to stop.

“Do you want me to get off?” She asked, leaning forward a little to take some of her weight off him.

“I want you to fuck me!” He said with force. “Milady, please.”

Hermione obliged.

Later, when he had caught his breath and stopped seeing stars, Marcus kissed his wife. Thank Salazar she was not a Legilimens for if she had known how possessively smug he was at this moment, she would have hexed him. His hand slid over her rounded stomach and felt a kick.

“I think we woke him up.” Hermione muttered a cooling charm, regretful she was going to be heavily pregnant in summer. Their very merry Yule had left her with a surprise, and another complaint against magical contraception. 

The standard potion did not always work in conjunction with ritual magic, which was apparently something a witch simply knew. When she had complained, the potioneer had given her an odd look. Married witches rarely objected to conceiving a second child accidentally. At least not with their husbands.

The timing had been awkward but the prospect of another baby wasn't too daunting. It would mean putting off starting her Doctorate but on the other hand, she had a useful project in researching a more efficacious contraceptive. Plenty of reading to occupy her time when she had to put her feet up.

“When did Muggles invent that sonar thing?” Marcus had marvelled at the technology that had allowed them to see their children in utero. He had been incredulous when Hermione had pointed to the blob on the screen that was Livia. This time, they had gone to a private clinic with a newer machine. The technician had shown them their son with thoughtless ease.

“1957.” She had to think about that for a while. “Though it wasn't commonly used until the Seventies. My mum had one, and dad said I looked like an alien. Mum was quite cross about that.”

“Our son looks like a house elf.” The proud father remarked and got an elbow nudge in his stomach for his comment. Marcus smirked. “If he comes out with big floppy ears, I am blaming you.”

“Any complaints, and you can have the next one.” Hermione peeled off her gloves so she could rub her belly, twining her fingers with her husband's. She shifted onto her side so she could cuddle against him when swore. “Damn it, he's found my bladder again. Help me with the kinky boots, would you?”

Marcus divested his wife of the highly impractical footwear, in which she could stand and flaunt but not walk, then freshened the bed while Hermione scurried to the bathroom.

He tidied away their playthings, wanting to get into the habit to avoid awkward conversations with any inquisitive offspring or house-guests. The wizard supposed he could buy Livia a pony to explain away the presence of a riding crop but some of the Muggle gadgets Hermione had been gifted on her hen's night defied exposition.

“Don't forget to brush your teeth.” The daughter of dentists called, just as Marcus was getting back into bed. He grumbled but complied. Hermione had made few adjustments to Flint Manor other than for the safety of small children, but she had insisted on modernising the bathrooms. The en suite glittered chrome and white.

“I want the children's teeth fixed by magic as soon as it can be done properly.” Marcus remarked in between scouring with the little brush and the minty paste. He did not mind the taste and the mundane cleaning worked better on his repaired teeth than the charm.

“No argument from me.” Hermione checked Livia's dental progress periodically, as between her own buck teeth and Marcus's crooked snaggles their kids would need all the orthodontic help they could get. “It'll have to be done in stages as they grow but by the time they go to Hogwarts, they won't be teased.”

In fond accord, they went to bed and might have slept late in blissful contentment except for a house elf rousing Marcus shortly after sunrise. He threw a pillow, which the little creature dodged easily.

“Sir needs to get up.” Treacle insisted.

“Bugger off.” Marcus snuggled deeper into the bed to shield himself and his wife from the assault of morning only to find Hermione was not there.

That got him sitting up and glaring. The bedroom was empty of witch. He craned his head to confirm the bathroom was also unoccupied. Marcus got up, found a pair of pyjamas then fixed his attention on the house elf.

“Madam is in the blue parlour with Miss Bulstrode who is crying.” Treacle informed him. Because he was not a Gryffindor, Marcus did not immediately charge out of the room to do battle with whoever had made his cousin weep.

“Why is Millie upset?” He asked, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. If it wasn't a crisis, he would wash up before making an appearance. Marcus didn't consider himself a vain man but one too many troll jokes had left him determined not to appear slovenly. “Do I have to kill Potter?”

“No, sir. Mister Potter does not have to be killed by you. He is also in the blue parlour with Madam. He was playing the I-see-you game with little Miss.” The house elf's tone suggested that the saviour of the wizarding world was at least making himself useful at the moment. Livia loved peekaboo.

“They should be at Bulstrode Hall scattering flower petals or throwing paper or whatever it was.” His wife and his cousin had spent many argumentative afternoons with Madam Bulstrode deciding on wedding details. The Muggle traditions Potter and Millie wanted to include seemed ridiculous to Marcus but he sensibly avoided all comment.

Hermione's castigation last night kept tact in the forefront of his mind. He weighed his deportment against spousal kudos then went downstairs barefoot and unshaven.

The blue parlour had been a neglected room full of cabinets for his great-aunt Euphrosyne's pressed flower collection. Marcus had given Hermione carte blanche to redecorate, which she had done efficiently by donating the collection to Hogwarts as Herbology specimens.

With the imposing furniture removed, they discovered the walls were covered in wallpaper charmed to mimic a summer sky; a soft azure with fluffy clouds drifting lazily by. Hermione moved her parents' navy lounge suite into the room, added a few more squashy chairs for loafing and the blue parlour had become their family room.

Millicent, definitely family, sat in a dressing gown on the sofa, trying to drown furious tears with chamomile tea. Her eyes were red but her face was cold. Marcus knew that combination meant she was very angry indeed. Potter, not family yet, was sitting on the floor with Livia, who was giggling.

“Good morning.” Millicent said, carefully sipping. “Hermione has just ducked out to fetch me a Calming Draught.”

“Good morning.” Marcus returned the greeting as he sat in the recliner then helped himself to some of the toast from the tray on the coffee table. As he smeared raspberry jam, he glanced from his cousin to her fiance.

“We are fine.” The witch said, brittle. “The wedding may need to be postponed.” Her teeth clinked against her teacup as her hand trembled. “My step-mother altered the guest list.”

“Mrs Bulstrode lied to us.” Harry spoke in a deliberately casual tone, his attention on Livia as he uncovered his face. 

“Picky boo!” The little girl mimicked him. Harry stuck out his fingers against his cheeks like whiskers. “Pikachu!” Livia identified, clapping her hands.

“She edited out all Harry's friends she deemed unsuitable. Not everyone, just those she thought would lower the tone of a Bulstrode wedding.” Millicent had agreed to involve her father's wife as a peace offering to her family. As half-blood, it was her parents' opinion her filial duty was to marry a pure-blood. They had graciously forgiven her for not being able to do that properly, as somehow she had managed to land the most eligible bachelor in Britain.

“We were so busy with work, we let her handle the RSVPs. Everything was fine. She told us that to our face. I checked again because Seamus asked me outright if he was invited.” Some of his self-control faltered and his voice rose. Livia frowned at her godfather, uncertain if she were being scolded.

“My step-mother assured us she had sent invitations to everyone on the list we had given her.” She gulped, trying to keep her Slytherin mask in place. This time, just once, she had let herself believe her step-mother was sufficiently pleased with her not to meddle. Or make her feel inadequate. “Then this morning, Harry got lost and chanced across the dining room.”

“The tables were set. I've never seen so much cutlery.” Harry had thought the gilt plates pretty, until he had realised the chalices were metaphorically poisoned. “I didn't recognise the name on the place setting, so I looked around. I couldn't find any of my Auror friends. Neville had a place but Katie didn't and neither did Cho.”

“They're both definitely on the list.” Hermione remarked, striding into the room. She handed Millicent a vial and Harry a parchment then picked up Livia to coax her to have some breakfast. Her daughter had recently decided she only wanted to eat mashed potatoes, a stance her parents were not prepared to indulge.

“Is there time to owl everyone we want to attend?” Millicent asked in a momentary mellow daze after she knocked back the potion. She breathed slowly then shook her head. “I still want to throttle her.”

“I will lend you some rope.” Marcus offered. Hermione was sufficiently angry at the situation she didn't even give him a warning glance.

“Millie, I want to marry you.” Harry began, speaking with wincing care. He got the important bit out first still gun-shy from Ginny's tantrums. “I won't do it at your parents' house. I've put up with them for your sake but this is too much.”

“I know.” The witch might have ground her teeth except for the Draught. “So, we cancel everything and get pilloried in the press. Merlin, we'll need to make some sort of official statement.”

“Elope.” Hermione suggested. “Handfast somewhere then go on your honeymoon. Everything's booked. I can handle sending your regrets to your guests and Marcus can handle the Bulstrodes.” Her husband's malicious grin endorsed her suggestion. “You can have a reception here when you get back.”

Harry and Millie did not need to be told twice. They went to Godric's Ford, to share their May morn with Harry's parents and plight their troth. They Portkeyed to Niagara Falls, to spend three weeks blissfully anonymous amongst the throng of tourists.


	4. BBQ part 1

3rd July 2010

 

Harry had done more than insist. He had asked, cajoled, pleaded, wheedled, coerced then finally outright demanded. The Golden Trio would get together for his thirtieth birthday. No excuses. No complaints. They would be bloody adults about this and eat damned cake together.

He had started negotiations at the beginning of the year, allying with peacemakers Neville and Hannah to get what he wanted. Mostly. There were some necessary compromises. 

Ron refused to 'rub Ginny's nose in it' by going to Grimmauld Place where his little sister had been replaced. Hermione refused to attend without Marcus, as both her friends' wives were going to be there. Ron pushed for something Muggle, expecting the Slytherins to object. 

Then the press caught wind of the birthday plans, and suddenly any Weasley attending any Potter party was tantamount to treason in Molly Weasley's eyes.

It was Jennifer Weasley who came up with a suitable middle ground for everyone; her parents' house. Bara-Hack, Connecticut was a wizarding town so there would be no problem with accidental magic from the children. And her mom had been nagging her to come home for Independence Day ever since she had married an Englishman.

The Randalls would be delighted to host their daughters' friends for a festive barbecue, and they would be well away from any prying reporters. Harry heartily endorsed the American witch's earnest request that they join her for the weekend, leaving Ron and Hermione no option but to agree.

The Flints, the Longbottoms and the Potters arranged to take Portkeys at their convenience on Saturday afternoon, to arrive at the charming inn in Bara-Hack on Saturday morning. Rather than inundate the Randalls with house-guests, the English wizards and witches had opted to book a whole wing of the sprawling country house.

Marcus paid for their accommodations, saying publicly to Harry that it was a birthday present. He said privately to Hermione that if Ron made the visit awkward, they could camp out at the inn and eat themselves sick on maple pancakes. As much as she wanted the get-together to go well, Hermione put the odds on the all-day breakfast.

When the Flints arrived at the Laurel Inn, Marcus was carrying Livia. The five year old would have protested that she was big enough to stand by herself but Portkey travel made her woozy. Hermione carried Septimus because the almost-three year old had no sense of self-preservation.

They paused to get their bearings on the gravel lot edged by the inn's namesake trees. It led off from the drive, giving arriving guests a discreet place to land whether by Portkey or broom. Marcus had his Nimbus across his back as professional brooms did not respond well to shrinking.

“Don't say it.” Hermione knew what was coming and shot her husband a look over their son's chestnut hair. He had been trying to convince her to allow him to buy Septimus a training broom for his third birthday. Livia had asked for and received one as a fifth birthday present, along with red shoes and a butterfly terrarium.

“I do not need to say it. You are already thinking it.” Marcus bent to kiss his diminutive wife without mentioning how suitable the inn grounds would be for training flights. Their son was big for his age and restless. Hermione was all for 'structured physical activity' to promote 'coordination and confidence' and all that other rot from parenting manuals. Just not on a broom.

“Think something else.” The witch instructed acerbically as she headed towards the front doors. Marcus's quiet chuckle and his deliberately slow pace told Hermione what was now occupying his thoughts. She was wearing an old sundress that was a little snug. She'd picked it for their journey in case of Portkey sickness in the kids. Her husband liked the dress because it showed off the curve of her arse.

The innkeeper, Jack Higginbotham, greeted them at the front desk with handshakes and an easy-going smile. They were the first to arrive so Hermione could indulge her need to check on things without anyone rolling their eyes. The suites were ready, the cake would be delivered tomorrow and the staff had been briefed on her privacy concerns.

“I want Harry to have a good time. His twenty-fifth birthday was a circus. Witch Weekly paid someone to transfigure themselves into a streetlight to watch people visiting his flat.” Hermione frowned, recalling running the gauntlet with a newborn. Security concerns were one of the reasons why Harry had moved back into Grimmauld Place despite the echoes of his first marriage.

“We'll keep an eye out for anybody skulking, Mrs Flint.” Jack assured. He had done a little checking up on his guests. It wasn't everyday that someone booked a wing of his inn, and paid long weekend prices for a single night stay. “We like to keep everything relaxed. We're one of the oldest wizarding towns on the eastern seaboard, so we know all about keeping quiet here.”

Quiet was accurate. After being shown to their rooms and settling Livia and Septimus for a restorative nap, the Flints sat on their private deck. Hermione had brought a few books to read but had promised Harry she would leave her thesis at home. Marcus stretched out on the wrought iron bench and stared at the sky.

“Zavier Higgs agreed to have an MRI.” Hermione remarked, guessing her husband was worrying again. He was taking his shift seriously. When Livia had turned five he had almost convinced himself she was safe, that they wouldn't lose her, but their daughter's continued sensitivity to magic niggled at him.

“The magnet in the tube?” Marcus had been paying attention when his wife had explained all the tests she had arranged. As a graduate student, she had access to a variety of incomprehensible Muggle machines.

“That's the one. I hope to get a representative sample of the magical population. Livia's sensitivity is almost the opposite of what Squibs experience. There might be structural differences I can chart.” Hermione sat back in her deck chair and flicked through a textbook until she found the picture she wanted.

She showed it to him. A beautiful image; rainbow colours on what looked like a bouquet of feathers. Marcus stared at the gracile wisps, struck again by the precision of the motionless printed image.

He and Hermione had gone to a photography exhibition at Madam Shafiq's insistence. The wizard had not realised how moving static black and white photos could be. They had bought one of the works; an oak tree in a storm. Hermione had enthused about fractals but he had seen strength.

“It's a Diffusion MRI.” She explained when he handed back the book. “Fine detail. I'm not sure how much difference between magical and Muggle I will be able to see but it's a start.”

“Livia said the machine beeped at her all the time.” He had stayed home with Septimus, trusting his wife to know how to soothe their daughter at the clinic far better than he could. Even the coffee machines were different now, leaving him with no clue how anything did what it did. And Livia liked knowing that sort of thing. He didn't want to seem an idiot to his little girl.

“It was supposed to.” Hermione hesitated, but Marcus preferred to face down his problems. “You can have one, if you'd like. It'd help me eliminate any congenital structural differences.”

“You simply cannot sweet-talk, can you?” He turned his head to smirk at her. “Darling husband, please oblige me by allowing your doting wife to insert you in an eldritch contraption. Now that would convince me.”

“You get the same deal Livia got. You can have an ice cream after. With sprinkles.” She smirked back then leant forward and kissed him softly. “It's safe, and it's perfectly normal to be nervous.”

“I believe I said the same thing when I tried to get you on a broom.” Marcus caught a curl of hair escaping from her bun and twisted it around his index finger, tugging her gently closer so he could return the kiss with interest.

“I only ride one thing, darling husband.” Hermione teased. “If you want that to be your Nimbus, that's your loss.”

Marcus was still chuckling about her bon mot when they were interrupted by the arrival of the Potters. Harry, Millicent and baby James look much better rested than the last time Hermione had seen them. The newest Potter was teething and there was only so much charms could do to relieve his discomfort without knocking him out.

“Frozen gel teething rings are brilliant.” Harry said in greeting, hugging Hermione. He had managed six hours solid sleep before his son had started grumbling. It was a great morning. “One cooling charm and he's chomping away all day.”

“I fed Livia chilled vegetable puree. If he can manage a sippy cup, cold water helps too.” The mother-of-two was well on-pace with child-friendly solutions to a peaceful life. “Though she always spat up the peas.”

“Jamie's still on mum for drinks. He just knocks the cup over then splashes his hands in the mess.” Millicent had read every baby book her friends recommended, slipping into Muggle London like she was buying contraband. Her stepmother's advice to 'let the elves do it' had been ignored.

“Sticking charms.” Marcus, the primary care-giver for the Flint children, had a great deal of practice with that charm. He could manage a wandless Scourgify too.

“Already got them on the cupboards.” Harry nodded as the group headed into the inn. The Auror never would have expected to be sharing childcare tips with a Slytherin, far less the former team Captain, but Flint knew his baby-wrangling.

Jake Higginbotham was low-key with the Potters, who responded well to the lack of fussing. They were told about the in-house child-minding service and given the phone number of the local Healer. The American wizarding community had embraced Muggle telecommunications as owls regularly refused to fly in the worst winter conditions.

Millicent went to their suite to feed James in private while Marcus checked on the children. Both Slytherins sensed when to tactfully absent themselves.

“Thanks for doing this.” Harry said quietly, aware their serpentine spouses had left to facilitate this conversation.

“I will try my best, and my best is very good.” Hermione patted him on the arm and suppressed a smirk. She had picked up the habit from her husband. “But honestly, I think this weekend is going to be awkward.”

“I know.” He had to admit that he didn't have high hopes. But if he had looked into the Mirror of Erised right now, it would have shown him the Golden Trio best friends again. “Jenny's worried about him. She says he doesn't talk to her much about his school days. Even if they're just mulling over where to send their kids, he clams up.”

“Neville mentioned that too. Ron never goes to any of the commemorations.” She had missed him at the tenth anniversary celebrations. The press had commented on that so extensively and invasively that Marcus had cancelled their subscription to the Prophet to 'keep the drivel' away from his family.

“Something's bothering him.” Harry was saddened that he couldn't tell what was on Ron's mind. There had been a time when they'd been so close they'd almost been telepathic. It was tempting to blame Ginny for the rift but he knew the fault rested equally between him and Ron.

“I wouldn't know. I've spoken to him more in the past year organising your party than I have in the last ten.” Hermione tried not to sound as aggrieved as she felt.

“That's down to your husband.” It'd taken him a long time to look at Marcus Flint and not see the teenage bully he'd known at Hogwarts.

“No, it isn't.” The denial was fast and firm, Madam Flint in her best Wizengamot voice. “Marcus has been nothing but good to me. We're happy. I could've ended things better with Ron but that's down to me.”

“Merlin, you sound like McGonagall.” The two witches had different accents but the echo of their Professor was so crisp in Hermione's tone that Harry grinned. “Did she really make him wait in the hallway for a day?”

“Not the whole day.” This time, Hermione did smirk. “Quite a few hours, though. Him, and a whole contingent of Slytherins in dress robes. A first year asked how long they'd been in detention.”

“I just want the three of us friends again.” Harry confessed quietly in the aftermath of their shared amusement. “It's important.”

“What's important?” Neville had heard the tail end of the emotive declaration. There was a minuscule moment of exclusion, just a flash of suspicion from Harry and Hermione at the interruption. But Neville was alone, and Neville was absolutely trusted.

“Making up with Ron.” Hermione answered, giving her friend and cousin-in-law a welcoming hug.

“We're all on it.” Neville asserted, reciprocating the hug before sharing one with Harry. “Hannah and the kids will be in shortly. Alice and Frank are bit queasy after the hop.”

“Livia's the same way. She's having a lie down. We'll probably do something light for lunch.” Their plans for Saturday had been nebulous other than getting the kids settled before a big day of fireworks and excitement on the 4th.

“Hannah's keen to try the chowder. Apparently that's the New England speciality” Neville had travelled a bit on specimen collecting trips but never to North America. “I'm happy to give any seafood a go, so long as it doesn't have tentacles.”

“Marinated octopus is quite nice, actually.” Harry opined. The Potters and the Flints sneaked into Muggle London often to enjoy a quiet dinner and Greek cuisine was a favourite. Though, from Neville's expression, he was not convinced.

Once the children had recovered from the Portkey and everyone was feeling peckish, they phoned the Randalls to consult on activities. Richard and Constance, hoping to introduce their daughter's English guests to American culture, invited them to a Quodpot game.

A very awkward Quodpot game.

Getting to the stadium was not difficult, even with eight children under eight. Like the telephone, most American magical folk also had a driver's license. Or at least passing competence with a motor vehicle and a willingness to Obliviate any Police Officers who pulled them over.

Rich, Conny and Jenny drove two minivans and a sedan to an empty lot beside a seemingly derelict gas station. The stadium appeared once they deposited their tickets in an old vending machine. Decorated boldly in red, white and blue, the building was mostly bleachers and concession stands. And people.

First stop was the line-up for the snack vendors then the climb to their seats. Marcus took point, parting the crowd with strategic elbows and determination. As the tallest of the group and the most ruthless, he got to their section of the stands then stood as signpost for the stragglers.

Hermione levitated the food while Hannah levitated the drinks, hoisting the hot dogs and fizz out of reach of the boisterous fans. The two teams were in the minor league but they were playing hard and whenever a quaffle exploded, the fans surged to their feet.

Harry and Jenny herded the children with Millicent in the middle and Neville bringing up the rear in case someone got separated. Rich, who had got them the complimentary corporate tickets for a sold-out game, had been button-holed by one of the team owners and had waved them on.

The seats were shaded and comfortable, well positioned for a good view of the action but it also put them in plain sight of the whole crowd. 

Harry slunk low in his chair and tried to pretend he wasn't uncomfortable. Millicent had to put a deafening charm on James, who cried at the noise. Hermione and Hannah managed to distribute lunch but the children were so over-excited more of the meal was spilled than eaten. And Marcus and Ron said not a damn thing through the entire game.

Conny and Jenny tried to germinate an amiable atmosphere however their repeated attempts failed to sprout. Everyone was willing but distracted or in the case of the wizards reluctant to comment lest they provoke an argument.

Fabian Weasley, a fan of the Bara-Hack Knockers, got into a loud dispute with Frank Longbottom over whether Quodpot or Quidditch was better. The seven year olds were quelled by their parents but sulked for the rest of the game. The Knockers lost to the Dudleytown Scriveners, and everyone was guiltily relieved to leave.

After they were dropped off at the Laurel Inn, the Flints, Potters and Longbottoms collectively decided to have an early night. While the Inn did not customarily offer room service, Jack Higginbotham was happy to provide an impromptu dishes-to-deck arrangement. Hermione privately thought him sensible for keeping five tired and grumpy children away from the other diners. Everyone was in bed by nine.


	5. BBQ part 2

4th July 2010

 

Because Marcus learned from past errors, if they were not in Flint Manor he always slept in at least a pair of pyjama bottoms. Thus when his son charged into the bedroom and burrowed under the counterpane, he was girded. Livia was not far behind her brother though she leaped on the bed rather than try to squirrel between her parents.

“Can we have waffles?” Septimus asked excitedly, popping up amongst the pillows to nudge his mother. “Pweeeze?”

“Please.” Hermione corrected sleepily. “Papa Lima Echo Alfa Sierra Echo.” She had begun using the international radiotelephonic alphabet to help Livia learn how to spell. Her daughter had struggled with her ABCs even with jaunty songs as the written symbols often confused her. But like her father, she had a good memory.

“Whiskey Alfa Foxtrot Foxtrot Lima Echo Sierra.” Livia spelled out after a moment's thought. “With syrup.” She added, hesitating at the word 'syrup' because she didn't like getting things wrong. The young witch liked syrup but it wasn't a word that made sense. And things not making sense was something else she didn't like.

“Is it breakfast o'clock?” Marcus asked, willing to go along with his wife's unorthodox teaching ideas because he had been much older than six before he could spell his own name. His mother had fired a tutor for calling him an imbecile but spelling remained a laborious process of memorising letter sequences. If there was an intuitive pattern to writing, he could not see it.

“It is yo-yo stick cup o'clock.” Septimus said proudly, having learned his numbers by associating them with physical objects. Marcus translated then grimaced into his pillow. 6:14am was technically breakfast o'clock as anything past five qualified as 'morning'.

Mr and Mrs Flint yielded to the inevitable and got up. One offspring might be persuaded to go back to sleep but not two. Their pre-breakfast routine did not vary. Both Marcus and Hermione considered a structured upbringing essential to a well-behaved child particularly with house elves anxious to serve. Neither parent wanted to rear spoiled brats.

Marcus had seen enough flouncing, sulking, pouting and entitled tantrums during eight years in Slytherin to last several reincarnations. Hermione had been on the receiving end of too many smug bullies and weathered too many supercilious sneers to tolerate any of that in her own children.

So Livia and Septimus made their own beds, Septimus had a little help from his father because he couldn't reach, and laid out their own clothes for a going-out meal. Livia usually considered it a mark of independence to shower alone but the Inn's bathrooms were different so Hermione turned everything on for her then pulled the curtain.

She was brushing her teeth and thinking about dopamine receptors for her thesis when her daughter stuck her head out of the shower.

“What are they independent from?” Livia asked, pushing her hair off her face.

“Short answer or long answer?” Hermione spat out toothpaste before replying.

“Oh, short.” The girl shrugged. “It's just one day.”

“Two hundred and thirty years ago, farmers and artisans here thought the British king, George III, was doing a bad job. They felt exploited and ignored so they rebelled. There was a war, which they won, so they no longer have a monarchy.” She explained succinctly.

“Was he a bad king?” Livia ducked back into the shower to finish rinsing and shouted the question over the noise of the spray.

“He was ill and had bad advice. For the British, the war was about money, as many wars are. And a lot of new ideas were being shared and a big one was the idea of liberty. That individuals have rights. So a poorly governed colony decided to go it alone.” Hermione made no distinction between Muggle history and wizarding history. She wanted to impress upon Livia that she was a citizen of both worlds.

“But we're British.” There was some twiddling of faucets and a loud yelp as she found which way made the water hot but she figured out how to turn everything off. “Are they being mean asking us here to watch them do liberty?”

“The States and Britain have been friends for more than a hundred years. Mr and Mrs Weasley and Mr and Mrs Randall asked us here very kindly so your uncle Harry could have a relaxed birthday.” That was a diplomatic answer. Hermione was not going to explain why she and Ron weren't on the best of terms.

“A hundred years is a long time.” Livia agreed. “When I am a hundred years old I am going to have a long beard I can use as a scarf.”

“You'll have to be careful about not getting it in your food.” She handed her daughter a towel then shooed her out to hurry Septimus along.

Once everyone was washed, dried, dressed and lectured on proper behaviour, they went to breakfast. The Laurel Inn prided itself on providing an ample breakfast menu for its guests and for the holiday the spread was lavish.

The waffles arrived decorated with banana, strawberries and blueberries in the pattern of the American flag. Hermione thought the effect was rather well done but she smiled when Marcus covertly arranged his fruit to form the Union Jack.

“How many flags are red, white and blue, mummy?” Septimus asked, pouring maple syrup over everything on his plate. And his hands. And a fair bit of the table. Marcus cast a cleaning charm and removed the little pitcher of syrup before the flood spread.

“For countries, about thirty, I think.” Hermione tucked a napkin into her son's collar to catch most of the spills. She would much rather Septimus was confident to feed himself than chide him over making a mess. “It's the most popular combination of colours for national flags.”

“I want an orange one so I can have mandarins.” Livia cut her waffles carefully along the ridges so she could have little containers of fruit and syrup and waffle. She was so intent on being tidy that she didn't notice her father smirking at her mother.

“We'll look up orange flags when we get home.” Hermione promised, choosing not to acknowledge Marcus's amusement at their daughter's precision. It was a continuing source of mirth for the Slytherin that his wife's compulsive organisation had been inherited by the little girl who looked so much like him.

The Potters, woken by James the Alarm Clock, joined them for round two of waffles. Harry tucked into the maple cured bacon though he shared Marcus's complaint that it was too crisp. Millicent made short work of the Greek yoghurt, fruit toast and berry compote but avoided the omelet as she and eggs were still not on speaking terms.

“I barely had any trouble, not compared to some. Poor Padma did nothing but throw up for nine months. But eggs, still, make me queasy.” Mrs Potter carried James in a sling across her chest and gave him little tastes of different foods. He had a lovely time with a piece of banana.

“Tomatoes.” Marcus and Hermione said grimly at the same time. For both pregnancies, anything even touched by tomato had been enough to get off Hermione's nausea.

“Tango Oscar Mike Alfa Tango Oscar Sierra.” Livia ventured, setting her knife and fork in a neat line across her plate to show she had finished eating.

“It has an 'e' in it. After the 'o'.” Millicent corrected gently. Livia stared at her, biting her lip as she mentally tried to imagine the word and put another letter somewhere. Hermione leant over and whispered the correct spelling before the little girl got frustrated.

“It's a naughty word.” Livia muttered, not liking that the plural was different to what she expected. The four adults all stifled their grins at her serious face.

The Longbottoms ambled in for breakfast just as the Potters and Flints were considering leaving. Instead they conjured more chairs and had another round of red, white and blue drinks while their friends ate.

“Mrs Flint, you're a sciencer. How'd you do this without magic?” Frank asked, holding up his patriotically striped beverage. He'd stirred it hard, until his mum had told him to stop, but it hadn't turned purple.

“It's scientist, actually. And the drinks would be fairly easy. Find liquids with different densities then pour them carefully so they layer.” Hermione was not much of a fan of cocktails but she had seen some very colourful efforts at various university parties.

“Like when mum makes salad dressing?” The boy swished his straw surreptitiously but Hannah had a bartender's sharp eye for spills and told him off.

“Exactly right. You'll see a lot more when you start Potions in a few years.” Hermione cast a 'Finite' on her drink. The colours stayed roughly the same, hinting at food colouring and grenadine, while the little fireworks stopped. “See? It's a bit less vivid.”

“I want to melt a cauldron. Dad said he did it all the time.” Frank mimed a blast with his hands then sat back in alarm as a spark shot out of his pinkie. Hannah hastily dipped a napkin in her drink and wrapped it around her son's finger.

“Uncle Algie was ever so pleased.” Neville said wryly as he extinguished the smouldering patch on the tablecloth. “Alright, mate?”

“Yes, dad. It just smarts a bit.” He pulled away the napkin to hold up a reddened little finger. “Good thing I wasn't picking my nose.”

“Frank, nose picking isn't table talk.” Hannah chided again in an easy-going tone. The fond castigation had the boy grinning at his mother, and had Hermione and Marcus sharing a momentary glance. Neither commented on the Longbottoms' different parenting strategy. There would be enough conflict that afternoon.

The rest of the morning was spent ambling around Bara-Hack, looking through the self-consciously colonial shops and enduring good-natured ribbing about their English accents.

Jenny walked to the Laurel Inn to guide them along the path to her parents' house. Bara-Hack was hedged in by forest none of the magical folk wished to clear. The village had expanded into what had been corn fields when the settlement had been agrarian, leaving a winding route past cottage gardens.

While the Randalls' front yard contained the classic 'cottage' flowers the house was far from rural. The middle third of the building was clearly colonial but two glistening white wings extended on either side and a tin mansard roof capped all three sections.

“My grandpa was a bit of handyman.” Jenny explained when the group paused to stare at the spun-sugar edifice. “A history buff too. I think we have the only Romanesque staircase in New England.”

“When was Romanesque?” Harry asked Hermione in a whispered aside as the youngest Mrs Weasley climbed the steps into the portico.

“Early medieval. Norman era in England.” She required equally softly, shrugging when her best friend gave her an incredulous look. “Hogwarts had moving staircases. Why fuss?”

“Ron never said Jenny came from money. This is a big surprise.” He put some audible weight on 'big'. “I hope that's not what's bothering him.”

Their conversation was cut off by the appearance of Conny Randall in crisp white robes with a large rosette pinned on her shoulder. She hugged her daughter and invited them enthusiastically inside.

“We're all out the back. Great weather for it. We've got charms for the heat but no one can do anything about it if clouds roll in.” She smiled, chatting and trying extra hard to make everyone feel welcome after yesterday's stilted outing.

“Thank you for inviting us, Mrs Randall.” Neville began the round of collective courtesy as Harry and Hermione were momentarily distracted by the sight of Ron ducking furtively back into the kitchen.

“Call me Conny, please.” The American witch smiled, ushering everyone through to the patio and doing introductions. Mindful of requests for low-key privacy, the Randalls had limited invitations to family and close friends. The atmosphere was far more relaxed than the Quodpot game.

But there was no sign of Ron.

Hermione, with honed Wizengamot habit, shook hands and memorised names. Harry put his public mask on and tried not to crane his head to look for the elusive redhead. As soon as they decently could, they slipped back into the house to find Ron.


	6. BBQ part 3

4th July 2010

 

The Randalls' kitchen was glossy. Hermione's first impression was one of shiny surfaces, silver appliances and glass bowls. Someone liked their counter space. Ron was setting out cups on a floating serving tray, his movements fussy and preoccupied.

“What's wrong, Ron?” Harry asked bluntly, frowning as he noticed the fidgeting

“Jenny wants this to go well.” The ginger wizard spoke to the arrayed tumblers hovering in front of him. They sparkled. His mother-in-law was big on cleanliness in her house. He could see his face in the toaster.

“She's outside showing everyone around. It'll be fine.” He had to admit that wasn't the most heartening endorsement he could have given but Harry wasn't confident himself they could make everything like it had been. “We're not here for her.”

“Yeah.” Ron let his breath out in a long, pained sigh. “Happy birthday. We got you a broom display kit. Stasis charm and stuff. I got one when Fabian was little after he chewed on my Firebolt.”

“Thanks.” Harry appreciated the thought and tried to ignore the little voice in his head that remarked on the generic nature of the present. Before his divorce, his presents from his best friend had been far more personal. The distance between them yawned.

“Ron.” Hermione had heard enough speeches to know when someone had something to say. Words were burning on Ron's tongue. “Just tell us. Whatever it is, we won't cause a scene.”

“Ginny's writing a book.” He spat it out like poison. “About her marriage. About everything. Warts and all. Except from what I heard, it's going to be all Harry's fault. Skeeter's publisher's owl is practically roosting at the Burrow.”

“Fuck.” At Millicent's request, Harry had been consciously limiting his profanity to the DMLE. James would learn rude words inevitably at Hogwarts, his parents both had, but his mother wanted to protect him every way she could.

“Yeah.” Ron sent the tray floating out the window to make its round among the guests then leant against the counter. “I tried to talk her out of it. Even offered her money. She's hard up, you know.”

“If she'd been more discrete about sleeping around, she would've had a better case for alimony. I didn't cheat her. It's the Wizengamot that sets the support rates.” Harry would rather have hexed himself than discuss this subject. His divorce settlement had been all over the press. Gringotts had ejected reporters trying to cadge information out of the goblins about his financial situation.

“The Wizengamot has just reviewed the award rates.” Hermione interjected, proud of that battle won. “Theo and I tabled reforms for pensions and spousal support was included. We removed the penalties for infidelity in no-contest contractual dissolutions.” The labyrinthine laws governing magical marriages had given her literal nightmares. Drowning in parchment. “Ginny could appeal. Sorry, Harry.”

“If she's skint, I'll pay up.” He shrugged. It was just money and the Weasleys had been generous to him when they had little to spare. Back in the day. “But it's not about money, really, is it?”

“No.” Ron straightened. This has been plaguing him, sweating him since he had found out. “Mum's egging her on. That spread the Prophet did on James, on how delighted you were with your new family...” He stopped with a groan. “Bloody Hell, did you have to look so happy without my little sister?”

“I am happy without her.” That was not tactful and if he'd had more sleep last night maybe he would've stopped himself saying so. “Sorry, Ron, but it's the truth. Millie's great. No fights, no trying to make me jealous. I can go to work without being made to feel guilty.”

“She didn't want you to be an Auror because it wasn't safe.” He had to defend his sister. His sense of loyalty was already smarting enough having gone behind Ginny's back to tell Harry about the book. Ron wouldn't listen to Harry traduce his ex. “She loved you. We'd just fought a war.”

“She loved the idea of me.” It had hurt to discover that. Deep down, Harry had to admit to himself that it still hurt. “Loved being married to the hero. Loved being admired for being Mrs Chosen One.”

“Did you have to marry a Slytherin?” Ron asked plaintively. He was sure Ginny wouldn't have minded so much if she'd been replaced with someone she knew well. If Harry had started dating Alicia Spinnet or Parvati, someone she could rationalise as being 'only a substitute' it would've been alright. But Bulstrode?

“Not bloody this again.” Hermione shook her head. Once this nonsense between them got started, they'd be back to arguing about old hurts. “It doesn't matter any more. It didn't really matter then except as a way of keeping score.”

“It matters.” He insisted. “They were the enemy.”

“For fuck's sake, we won! We don't have to fight any more.” Harry's voice rose to a shout. The sudden volume startled them all, and they looked hastily around in case they'd been overheard. The windows were open.

Outside on the patio, Jenny's smile faltered. Neville, Hannah and Millicent had settled on the lawn with baby James and one year old Heather, who was obviously a Weasley with her new penny hair. They hadn't heard. Marcus, getting drinks for the kids in the pool, had heard perfectly well.

“He doesn't talk to me.” Jenny said, half to herself. “I wasn't there, you see.”

“Neither was I.” Marcus's tone was wry as he put watermelon stars into cups and filled them with lemonade. “I spent the war under elf guard in a concrete hangar in Moldova.”

“Was it that bad? All we got was official statements from the Congress and vague travel restrictions. Nothing solid.” Jenny shook her head at the finger food and continued to try to look unperturbed.

“Talk to my wife.” How could he explain to a nice American witch that one of his schoolmates had watched a teacher be eaten by a giant snake on his dining table? “She has that computer mail thing if you want to be private.”

“Email.” The softly spoken word was consent. Jenny heard her agreement in her own voice and made a frustrated noise. “It's bad enough when his family close ranks. It's like they have their own language. Like, why doesn't Ron like roughing it? I suggested we take the kids camping and they all looked like I blasphemed. I loved camping when I was their age.”

“The three of them spent a year searching for horcruxes. Little food, one tent, being hunted by rat bastards.” Marcus had coaxed his wife to open up to him about her adventures as the Boy Wonder's sidekick. There were cadres of people he wanted to throttle for putting a teenage girl at such risk.

“Oh.” Jenny took a deep breath then exhaled, trying hard not to react much to the news. She didn't want anyone to see. Her parents were worried already and Fabian was old enough to notice the tension between his parents. “If someone had told me that, I never would've suggested it. It sounds like they were fighting a war.”

“You named your boys after Weasley's uncles. Were you not told how they died?” Considering she lived in England, Marcus was surprised at Jennifer's ignorance. “Do you read the Prophet?”

“Ron refuses to have it in the house. I've had a peek at it at the Burrow. Looks like a bit of a rag, to be honest.” The witch studied the wizard, shading her eyes as she had to look up at him. She was surprised Hermione didn't wear higher heels considering the height of her husband. “So does everyone but me know all about it?”

“Yes.” Marcus confirmed stolidly.

“I do ask, you know. I ask all the time. No one frigging answers.” She blinked quickly. This weekend was supposed to mend fences, to let some fresh air into stale disputes. “Or they look at me like it's somehow my fault I wasn't there.”

“That is fairly standard.” He weathered the proxy sentence for war crimes at every commemoration. “Having done something is a badge of honour. They keep score.”

“You're kidding?” The smirking frankness jostled her out of her worries enough for Jenny to challenge him. Too polite to say 'bullshit' she simply shook her head at the husband of the woman who had broken her husband's heart, at least according to her mother-in-law.

“The Ministry parcelled out Orders of Merlin, awards of special merit, commendations and so much other miscellaneous tat there is a tally sheet. Seamus Finnigan has it in his father's pub.” Hermione had made a point of introducing him to all her DA cronies. The Irish wizard was among those who were willing to forgive Slytherins.

“Is that normal?” Jenny asked, wondering if this was another example of British humour she simply did not get.

“Depends who you ask.” Marcus heard his daughter call for him, impatient for the drinks he had said he would fetch. He excused himself to deliver the beverages, leaving a very pensive witch.

In the kitchen, the Golden Trio had diffused the tension between them by edging away from the breakables in the kitchen into a quiet hallway. They all felt the same sense of urgency. Someone would come looking them soon, doubtless hopeful and expectant.

“I don't want Ginny to do a hatchet job on you.” Ron kept his voice low, creating the impression they were conspiring and disquieting himself in doing so. “Mum won't let it lie. Any of it. She always mentions if she sees either of you in the paper. Keeps calling you 'Lady Flint', Hermione.”

“That is my title.” The daughter of Labour-voting dentists wasn't wholly thrilled with her rise to wizarding aristocracy but people had to listen to her now. Using the Flint name to jimmy open doors had got results. “The Weasleys have a Wizengamot seat. The Prewetts too. So Madam Weasley can lump it.”

“We're banished or whatever the term is.” The red haired wizard flushed. “Been like that for centuries.”

“No family has ever been 'banished'. There might be a lien against the Seat. A pending lawsuit or legitimacy contestation maybe but there is literally no way to permanently deny a pure-blood family from their Seat.” She spoke with the confidence of extensive research. “Your family's disenfranchisement is likely optional.”

“Merlin, you sound like Fudge.” Ron made a rude noise. “Why don't you just go all Ministerial and ban Ginny from writing the book?”

“I could do that.” Hermione replied after a little contemplation. “We got the privacy laws passed. Libel laws should be much the same. Not ban her from writing it but certainly keep the book from being released to the public.”

“How quickly could you do that?” Harry asked, hoping he didn't sound like he was begging.

“Probably not quickly enough if she's already talking to the publisher.” While she was an author herself, other than her thesis all her work had been in peer-reviewed journals. Hermione wasn't sure how long it took to write enough slander to fill a book. “But we could make it very clear there will be a significant lawsuit.”

“I wish she'd just take the bloody money.” Ron kicked the wainscoting then hastily mended the dent. Conny would notice a blemish on her timber panelling.

“You wouldn't. Not if it was personal.” Hermione said gently. “She's as stubborn as you are.”

“Yeah, Jenny says that a lot.” He thought about his wife, who didn't deserve all this stress. Maybe they could move to the States like she wanted, at least until the worst blew over. “Look, this whole thing is going to go pear-shaped. What do we do?”

“When Ginny's close to publishing, I'll go on leave.” Harry spoke as though he was signing up for a root canal. “Kingley's been casually mentioning how much holiday time I have saved up, and he's roped Millie into reminding me too.”

“I know a nice island in the Pacific.” Hermione smirked. “I'll start on the libel legislation right away. Quite a few of the provisions could be adapted from existing duelling laws. Leota and Padma could have a framework and precedents in a few weeks.”

“I'll try to delay my sister as much as I can.” Ron didn't rate his chances highly. “Maybe I can persuade my brothers to try talking some sense into her. That might work, if we're all bending her ear.”

He held out a hand, one to Hermione and one to Harry. Their lack of hesitation in clasping his fingers surprised him. Making a triangle, they held on tight.

“Golden Trio.” Harry grinned cautiously. “We do good work.”


	7. Court

28th November 2010

 

No one had ever accused Marcus Flint of being studious but like many Slytherins he strove to better himself. To that end, he was in a bookstore in Muggle London looking through self-help books on learning strategies.

Hermione had bought him an i-thing he could fill with audio-books, which had been useful in spite of the creepy disembodied voice. However, Marcus could not get over the feeling of being read to by a ghost. The irony of looking for a book for those with reading difficulties was not lost on him.

He pulled titles off the shelf, looked at the covers and re-shelved any that had a grinning Muggle on the cover. The wizard was prepared to take non-magical advice but not from someone beaming like an idiot.

“May I have this?” Livia marched over to him and held up a book with a brightly coloured head on it. “It's for colouring. It's got muscles and tendons and bits like mum's book. I think it's by the same person.”

“Gray wrote the original but it has been updated by other authors.” Marcus had long become accustomed to scientific literature cluttering the Manor. Hermione had her own study and a locked and warded laboratory but books crept. “Do you want to colour in muscles and tendons and bits?”

“Yes!” His daughter answered with Flint certainty. Livia opened the book. “Look, innards.” She smiled up at him, pleased with the word she had learned from her de facto aunt Hannah. “And I can see up his nose.”

“Is your mother going to look sternly at me if I say yes?” Marcus asked, hiding a smirk at his little girl's enthusiasm. Hermione would have no qualms about him buy any book for their eldest. Livia's joy of learning was an insight into her mother's own childhood.

“Of course not.” Livia said primly.

“Add it to the stack.” While his wife strove to inoculate their children with a sense of financial responsibility, Marcus found it a chore. The Flint coffers were sufficiently deep that several generations of dissolution would be required to deplete them.

Livia trotted off to add her find to the selection already at the counter. Muggles frowned at people carrying around armfuls of books in their stores and levitating their chosen tomes was forbidden. If he had been better at Memory Charms he would have simply Obliviated everyone. Muggle shopping made him irritable.

He was crouching down to check the books on the bottom shelf when he noticed a couple hissing a sotto voce argument in the Occult section. Their words were so sibilant they could have been speaking Parseltongue.

“There's nothing here.” The woman, in a smart cashmere twinset, almost slammed a book back into place. “Did you check the Scotland section?”

“There isn't a Scotland section.” The man, suited well but with a harassed loose tie, swore under his breath. “I looked through travel but...”

“What good will travel do?” She cut him off with a rising voice then looked around frantically in case they had been overheard. “We have to find something. I'm not sending our only child to some borstal in the highlands.”

“The Professor said we had to.” His effort at 'calm and reasonable' was both painfully audible and simply painful.

“Are you talking about Hogwarts?” Livia appeared spontaneously from behind a shelf in the way all children had of eavesdropping on what they should not. “I will be going there when I am old enough.”

“Be quiet!” The man said urgently to the black haired girl, making a quelling motion with his hands. “We're not supposed to talk about it.”

“I can talk about anything I like.” The little witch stuck out her chin in the way both her parents insisted she had learned from the other. “Except rude words, because Mummy says rude words are a sign of a lack of imagination.”

“And where is your mummy?” The woman asked, looking around for an irate parent. Her gaze passed over Marcus without pause. He did not attempt to catch her attention. He was enjoying the show.

“She's in the Wizengamot passing laws. She does that on Tuesdays, Fridays and sometimes Sundays. On other days she makes drugs.” Livia answered placidly.

“What sort of drugs?” The so-careful tone from Twinset Woman made Marcus want to laugh. Hermione synthesised various pharmaceuticals as part of her thesis research. She was hoping to develop something that helped treat the neurological damage from curses.

“Important ones.” Livia asserted, proud of her mother trying to help sick people. “She's a biochemist.”

“You know what that word means?” Suit Man spoke now, sounding adrift. “And you're going to... that place in Scotland? Can you get science degrees there too?”

“I don't think so.” Contemplating for a moment, Livia shook her head. “Mummy went to Oxford. She takes me there sometimes too so I can see where she studies for her thing.” She bit her lip and looked to her father. “Daddy, what is the word?”

“Thesis.” Marcus supplied, straightening up and approaching to join the awkward conversation. “Marcus Flint.” He introduced himself but did not offer his hand. If this couple was foolish enough to risk breaking the Statue of Secrecy within days, he assumed, of being told of a magical child, he doubted they would be worthy acquaintances.

“And are you a scientist too?” Twinset Woman inquired, looking him up and down as though he had just asked for money. Marcus did not take offence. He was wearing an old Quidditch jumper and jeans, so he looked scruffy. But that sneer went onto the tally against her.

“No.” His reply was clipped. He reached into a pocket and pulled out one of Hermione's business cards. He always carried a few for occasions such as this or if Muggle bureaucracy attempted to ensnare him. “Call my wife. Her parents were mundane, like you. There is a support group that may help you.”

“Why didn't that Vector woman mention it? We could've done with something sensible among the magic and owls and secret societies.” Suit Man took the business card as though it were a lifeline. He tucked it away in a silver card case, which went into his inside jacket pocket.

“She would have included a list of contact details.” Marcus had never taken Arithmancy but it had been one of his wife's favourite subjects, Septima Vector was a frequent visitor at Flint Manor. She and Hermione had put together a standard 'care package' to accompany the Hogwarts letters to Muggle-borns.

“We took everything to our lawyer. He laughed us out of his office.” Twinset Woman clearly was unfamiliar with mockery from employees. “We put the lot in the bin.”

A Gryffindor or a Hufflepuff might have exclaimed at that. A Ravenclaw might have made a cutting remark. But Marcus was a Slytherin and Slytherins learned how to convey contempt without a word. The Muggles drew back, though when he spoke it was to his daughter.

“Livia, we are leaving.”

The difference between lion and snake was again made clear when Marcus told his cousin about the encounter. Neville and Hannah had been hosting Septimus for a play-date with Alice. All four were covered in flour.

“You just left them there in the shop?” The Gryffindor asked as his Hufflepuff wife poured tea and offered the biscuits they had collectively made.

“Gladly.” Marcus bit into a slightly gooey brown lump and chewed for quite a while. “Not bad.”

“I put the raisins in, Dad!” Septimus said excitedly, eyeing his sister. “So there.”

“I went to London and Greenwich and all over.” Livia riposted, smug that she had been allowed to help their father with his errands. “We went to Diagon Alley too.”

Neville, Hannah and Marcus shared a look. They had quite an involved silent conversation. It started with an eyebrow from Neville, through a nod from Marcus to a sigh from Hannah before ending in three near-uniform frowns.

“When I saw advanced copies in Flourish and Blotts, I phoned Millie.” Despite his protests, Hermione had insisted he carry a phone with him at all times. He was convinced it was possessed. It made noises without him touching it, played tinny music at inopportune times and was apparently able to tell him the weather in Moscow at a tap.

“I had hoped Ginny would take the hint.” Hannah restrained herself from further comment due to little ears. She had truly, truly prayed their schoolmate would see sense and not publish the tell-all memoir. Unfortunately the former Mrs Potter had gone through with it despite threats of legal action.

Marcus took his children home via the Floo. Every month or so, Hermione Apparated somewhere with Livia to help her acclimatise to magical travel. Both of them were careful to reassure their daughter that her sensitivity to magic wasn't a flaw. Marcus was particularly determined on that score and had grilled all the tutors on the shortlist.

The 'survivor' as Hermione termed him was Jason Cresswell, who had got into a shouting match with his potential employer when the questions had become personal. The interview concluded with Marcus offering the younger wizard the job because he hadn't backed down. Now he lived-in and taught Livia on weekdays.

Jason was there when they stepped out of the Floo in his other capacity of general purpose security. Hermione and Marcus were realists. With the increasing high profile of the Flint family and their stance on many progressive issues, they were targets for malcontents. Jason, elder son of Dirk, understood completely.

“I saw Trafalgar Square and Nelson, who was really high up, sir.” Livia informed her teacher, who received the honorific out of courtesy. Octavius had insisted on formality after he had overheard his granddaughter referring to her teacher by his first name. As Marcus's father rarely noticed anything so sharply, they had complied.

“We will look him up for history class.” Jason promised then noting his employer's expression sent his charge into the school room to arrange her new books. Septimus followed her without being told as he was intensely curious about everything.

“The bloody memoir is out.” Marcus snapped after the children were out of hearing. “Expect the press. Anything in the post?”

“Two Howlers and a suspect package.” That was normal. Hermione received several red envelopes a week. It was Jason's job to record what they said and who sent them, sparing Madam Flint's valuable time and eardrums.

“Millicent and James will be staying with us for a few days while Harry finalises anything at his work.” They had arranged that months ago when Weasley had told them about his sister's plans. Auror Potter couldn't drop his cases at a moment's notice but he could get sudden leave pre-approved.

“Do you need me to pick up their Portkey?” Jason often slipped into the Ministry to quietly fetch things. The wizarding paparazzi hadn't yet connected him with the Flint household and as he had spent his teen years in New Zealand few people in the UK recognised him.

“Yes.” Marcus ground the word out between his teeth. Now the memoir was out, their excursions anywhere would be curtailed. He would have braved the press regardless and Hermione had to, but they both wanted to shield the children from the scrum.

Hermione, Nott and a bloc of new Muggle-born Wizengamot members had hammered through libel laws. The press had long been a means of swaying public opinion, often with outright lies manipulated by the old families. Not any more.

Rita Skeeter had been particularly vicious in her attacks on Madam Flint, but they had expected that. A much-publicised very private function for their sixth anniversary had been too tempting a lure for the reporter. She'd snuck in herself in her beetle Animagus form, informed by a source close to the family that all was not blissful at Flint Manor.

Skeeter had been delivered in a jar to the Ministry. Her own Quick Quill had been held as evidence, with a reverse amanuensis spell scribbling out all the reporter's secrets. Faced with having the transcript of her Quill read out in court, Rita Skeeter had plea-bargained to five years in Azkaban.

The Flints had renewed their subscription to the Daily Prophet. Marcus planned to frame the front cover of the issue when Ginny Weasley was arrested for slander.

But they had to give her enough rope.

“It looks like you've heard.” Hermione commented as she stepped out of the Floo to see her husband and Jason in grim conference. “Our solicitors sent a notice to the Flint Rooms at the Wizengamot. They've started proceedings.”

“So the torrent of shite from the Weasleys will commence shortly.” Marcus kissed his wife on the cheek as neither of them were fans of public displays of affection. Jason excused himself to see to the children. Once he was out of sight, Marcus pinched Hermione's bum.

“Wretch.” She swatted his hand. “It's going to be a bloody slog. I was really hoping Ron could convince his sister not to do this.”

“He tried.” While he didn't like the ginger, Marcus had to concede that Weasley had gone to great lengths to persuade that little bitch his sister not to publish. He knew for a fact Weasley had given her money, a very nice amount on several occasions, only to have his support thrown back in his face.

“It's going to be awful. If Ginny is brought to trial, I'll recuse myself. I'm not going to allow Molly to put the blame for this on me.” Hermione had rebuilt her friendships with many of the Weasleys, mostly through their wives, but only to a point. And that point was Molly.

“We will leave it all to the solicitors and take the children to Europe. Terence would like us to see his new observatory.” He'd get some good flying in too. His former team-mate's wife was a demon on a broom. “It will be fine.”

“From a distance.” She sighed. “I've got to work of my thesis. I didn't get anything done at lunch.” Hermione made to brush past to head to her study when he caught her in his arms and hugged her close.

“After you defend your thesis, you and I are going away for a week. You are going to do nothing. I am going to ravish you.” Marcus kissed his way down her neck until she shivered. “No arguing.”

“I might like to do something.” Hermione protested, guiltily aware she had been spending her days at the lab or the Wizengamot and her nights researching. More than once Marcus had found her asleep in her study and carried her to bed. “It doesn't seem fair you doing all the ravishing.”

“We can negotiate.” He conceded, releasing her despite all deprived urges to tear their clothes off. The thesis was important. The research was important. Hermione was running herself ragged as a mother, legislator and scientist. He was proud of her. He wasn't going to whine about any current lack of time for him. Because he had everything he had ever wanted and he was damn pleased about it.


	8. Witness

23rd February 2011

 

Hermione had promised herself she wouldn't loiter. Or linger. Or liaise. Or play word games with herself so she could hang about in Ministry hallways trying to look casual. She had recused herself from the Wizengamot for the duration of the case against Ginny. It was a closed session due to the sensitive nature of the proceedings.

Which meant if she wanted to know how the prosecution was going, she had to rely on very surreptitious gossip. Frustrated with herself, Hermione strode to the Flint Rooms and spent half an hour shuffling vellum until she gave up.

She went to Oxford, to her laboratory and shuffled paper. She reread her thesis, practising her defence. The other doctoral students regarded her with amusement until Soo-jin asked if she was going to a fancy dress party. Hermione looked down at herself, still in her robes, then shut herself in her cubicle to get some real work done before she went entirely mad.

It was past eight when she Apparated home discretely from the ladies' loo. The Manor was quiet and Hermione felt guilty about missing dinner. She'd not planned to be so late and hurried to the family dining room in hopes she might catch everyone still there.

The room was empty, plates already cleared. Hermione rubbed her eyes as she fought tears. She was tired. Running herself ragged. She knew this but there was so much to do. She wanted to be there for her family. All her family. She wanted the trial over. Bloody Ginny just couldn't keep her mouth shut. She'd seen Molly and Arthur at the Ministry, both trying hard not to show how worried they were.

“Daughter?” Octavius Flint had dined with his son and grandchildren that evening and had noticed the absence of his daughter-in-law. He had noticed that he had noticed her missing rather a lot, which was unusual for him. The mental fog that had plagued him since his wife had... gone away... was much less oppressive than it had been. Life didn't seem so grey any more.

“Oh, I'm sorry.” Hermione hastily blinked. “Is there anything you need?” Her father-in-law smiled at her in the considering way he had when he was trying to catch up with what was going on around him. Octavius had responded well to the treatment plan they'd found for him and while he still grumbled about the nurse, Mrs Shaw, he was much more lucid with a little aid.

“You look upset. Nothing troubling you, I trust?” He asked, hoping his son hadn't done anything stupid. Marcus was a difficult boy. Surly and angry. They fought so often. Not recently, he didn't think. No, recently everything had been quite pleasant. The petite witch made everything almost happy.

“Just over-tired. The Wizengamot is in session.” She indicated her mulberry robes, somewhat creased after being transfigured into a lab coat.

“Always a dull business.” Octavius agreed. He'd dutifully attended and had thought he was doing some good. Lucius always appreciated his help. “And the chairs are so uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I changed that. Ergonomic seating. And regular breaks. No one gets to sneak through codicils while their opponents are distracted by their bladders or leg cramps.” The filibustering and camping strategies of yesteryear had been foiled by her reforms. Now all she had to deal with was corruption, nepotism and lawyers.

“Jolly good.” He thought that was a very sensible thing to do. He knew his daughter-in-law was clever. He'd told Marcus to find a clever wife, as the boy was so pig-headed. That might have been different, if the other children... Octavius didn't want to think about that. “But the little boy and that smart girl, they're well, aren't they?”

“Very.” Hermione answered quickly, recognising the signs of the older wizard struggling. She and Marcus had discussed inviting Neville to the Manor to meet Octavius, to reassure him that the Longbottoms had a legacy. Neville had been willing for Hermione's sake, but they had hesitated unsure if it would help.

“Septimus reminds me of my brother. Cheeky.” Octavius was vague on the date and on the name of his son's wife but he was sure about his grandchildren. “Livia told me Marcus had taken her into Muggle London. Please, my dear, tell him off. It isn't safe. We have to be careful. She's precious.”

“I have a tracking charm on both the children.” She quashed her first snappish response to tell off her father-in-law. While London was a huge city and therefore had dangers, Octavius wasn't referring to the traffic or crowds. He meant the Muggles. “No one will hurt them.”

“Good. I don't want anyone hurt. I don't. I didn't tell...” Octavius nodded so vigorously he swayed. Hermione didn't grab him to try to steady him. Instead, she hooked her arm around his and stood at his side waiting, keeping him upright with a social posture he found reassuring.

“It's late.” She said quietly when he blinked at her. “I think I would like to retire for the evening. Would you escort me up?” Hermione and Marcus had worked together to find the best way to keep his father on an even keel. Patience and old fashioned manners helped most often.

“Of course, my dear.” Octavius took refuge in deeply instilled courtesy. He was at home. Flint Manor was his fortress. He could've found the way to the bedroom suites blind drunk without stumbling. When they got to the oak staircase leading to the family wing, he was back in control. “We missed you at dinner.”

“There was a difficult case.” Hermione temporised, regretting she hadn't watched the clock closer.

“The Weasley, yes.” He had caught his son swearing in the hallway and had castigated him. Such language was not appropriate for a scion of the House of Flint. “Marcus told me she had written a libellous book. Cedrella must be furious her daughter is so wild, though she probably gets it from the Black side of the family. The Weasleys have their tempers but they've never been shabby.”

“Granddaughter. Arthur married a Prewett.” She corrected, with a sour internal monologue about Molly. Hermione tried not to mind so much. It had been years, long, happy years, but the Weasley matriarch's continued vitriol still got under her skin.

“Oh, well, that explains it. Leap First and Look Second, that should be the Prewett motto. Temper and recklessness, not a good match.” Octavius frowned. There was something about the Prewetts he'd forgotten. Well, it couldn't be that important if it wasn't coming to mind. “I trust when it's Livia's time to receive suitors you'll look for a steadier young man. A Malfoy might do.”

“I will bear that in mind.” Hermione exercised some of her politician's tact. There was no way in several Hells she would encourage her daughter to marry a Malfoy. But if she announced that to any Flint, they'd go out of their way to arrange it. Livia was as stubborn as her father.

They met Marcus in the hall near the new master suite. Octavius bowed over her hand then ambled off to his own room. Hermione started to apologise for being late before he put his finger to her lips and led her to the door of their bedroom. There, curled among the pillows, Livia and Septimus slept where they'd dozed off while listening to their daddy tell them about Quidditch.

“Because it's so boring.” Hermione teased softly, padding into the room to unwind Septimus from a Magpies scarf. He grumbled in his sleep, refusing to surrender his trophy. “And he's still not allowed a broom until he's five.”

“Livia said she wants to be a Chaser for Slytherin.” Marcus whispered as he picked up his daughter, engulfed in one of his old jumpers, and smirked at his studious wife.

“Livia is going to be in Ravenclaw.” She retorted, having given up early on any expectation her daughter would be in Gryffindor. “A scholarly Eagle with minimal interest in cavorting at ridiculous elevations.”

“The 'Claws do have a Quidditch team. They were not bad. Relied too much on overcomplicated strategies but we could never let down our guard.” He walked to Livia's room and tucked her into bed, leaving her in his jumper as it was snowing outside.

Hermione put Septimus to bed and was then ambushed by her husband. He swept her off her feet, carrying her to their bed and dropping her on it. She hit him with a pillow.

“I'm sorry I missed dinner. The charges were read today.” Hermione was sure Marcus would understand but she still felt she had to explain. “It's all I can think of. I nearly put my pen in the autoclave I was so distracted.”

“We can be at Terence's lodge for brunch. Say the word. Potter is safely away, Weasley is on the other side of the pond and you can even bring your thesis.” Marcus sat down and slid off his wife's shoes so he could give her a foot rub.

“It sounds like we're running.” She moaned, more from his ministrations than frustration. He had a point. They'd discussed it. And hanging about at the Wizengamot to gossip would drive her mental. “Arthur and Molly looked so upset. They're really worried. Ginny could go to Azkaban.”

“She wrote the fucking book.” He had worked hard to delete certain words from his vocabulary, sure his wife would geld him if she heard their children swear. But that autobiography was worth more obscenities than he could speak in one breath.

“I loved skiing with my parents.” Hermione told the ceiling. She'd tried to keep her mum and dad real for her children. There were photographs of them in the drawing room. She shared the stories she'd been told growing up. When Septimus and Livia were older, she'd tell them more about the circumstances of their grandparents' deaths. But not yet.

“We will go where you went with them. Jason and Mrs Shaw can mind my father. He hates the snow.” Marcus worked his fingers into the tendons in the soles of her feet, undoing the knots. When his hands began migrating up her calves, she shifted her left foot carefully to rub the bulge between his legs. It had been a while since they'd had sex. Hermione felt she was cheating on him with her thesis.

Marcus knew every inch of her body. He knew what she liked. He knew how much she enjoyed him slowly stripping her clothes, no rush, no pressure. She lay sprawled on the bed as he undressed them both, lidded eyes lingering on his shoulders. He had little crescent scars there, marks of her appreciation.

“You are a terrible influence.” Hermione murmured as he slid her knickers down her legs and tossed them on the floor. He grinned giving her the wicked look that still made her heart flutter after six and a half years of marriage. When he spread her knees and angled himself just brushing her entrance then paused, she swore at him.

Marcus thrust home, kissed her and didn't object at all when she dug her nails into his skin as she shivered with the start of their pleasure. He varied the tempo, teasing her by slowing down when she was close then speeding up when she eased back. He planned to spend a good long while reminding her why she'd married him. Except she was clever and did that thing with her hips that made him forget his own name and his plan, and when she wrapped her legs around him he stopped teasing.

Afterwards, sweating and cold in the chilly room, Hermione watched him dab at the little spots of blood on his upper back and shoulders that he never let her heal. He liked the little scars. They were only visible if you knew what to look for, and she did. So whenever he was shirtless she remembered how good he was at relaxing her.

So even though it sounded like a retreat, they went to the Higgs' lodge. Marcus and Tamsin taught the children how to fly while she and Terence made star charts. They went skiing. They had snowball fights. She wrote five thousand words on amyloid precursors and decided she would defend her thesis in the spring once her current pharmaceutical tests were done.

Everything was a frosty idyll and her determined amnesia of any Weasley lasted until she received a letter from Angelina. The owl was one of Neville's, who knew where the Flints had gone, and he wouldn't have passed on the message unless it was important. Hermione girded herself for bad news.

It wasn't. Granted the letter wasn't unmixed blessings but it started with an apology. Angelina had read Ginny's book and recognised it for a morass of half-truths. Reading between the lines, Hermione saw a lot of fractures in the extended Weasley family.

Marcus listened as his wife read the letter aloud. He'd disliked Johnson in school but it was the dislike of rivals. She'd been good. Tactical and aggressive. He could see her being well suited to the surviving Weasley twin. What he didn't see was why his wife wanted to meet with her.

“She wants to talk to me.” Hermione moved scrambled eggs around her plate then glared at her husband as he stabbed a fork into her sausage and conveyed it to his plate. “That's mine.”

“You are playing with your food. I am eating it.” Marcus had been up early, in several senses, and had worked up an appetite demonstrating to his wife how much he enjoyed her company.

“You're stealing it.” She put her fork down. “I'm going.” Hermione said it like a challenge, meeting her husband's iron eyes with determination. “You can stay if you want.”

“Send her a Portkey. If she wants to talk, she can come here.” He bisected the sausage and returned half of it to her plate in a peace gesture.

“I can Apparate to London. We could meet there.” It was just within her range and she was familiar enough with her destination she was confident she wouldn't Splinch.

“You are not going to Apparate seven hundred bloody miles and back in an afternoon.” Marcus knew his command would rankle her but he had learned with Hermione that sometimes she needed to hear how much she was committing to an enterprise before she undertook it. And how much he didn't like it. “I know you can do it. I also know how much it will take out of you. And the press will be sniffing for any whiff Weasel drama.”

“You don't get to boss me about.” Hermione glared, not raising her voice because she expected they would be shortly have company for breakfast. Tamsin was a morning person and the children would up soon too.

“Yes, I do.” He held up his left hand, showing her the Muggle wedding ring he wore. “When you gave me this, you also gave me bossing rights. So I am invoking them now. Send Johnson a Portkey. She can bring her kids. They could probably do with a break.”

“You can be surprisingly considerate when you're being an arse.” She groused.

She sent Angelina a Portkey.

Her former Housemate was sufficiently determined to speak with Hermione without her mother-in-law knowing that she travelled to Austria with her two children. And a very unhappy husband.

When George appeared alongside his wife, Fred and Roxanne, Hermione tensed for a confrontation. She'd been waiting in the snowy clearing for almost an hour, pacing as she went over in her mind what she would say to Angelina. They'd been friendly at Hogwarts and she hoped to rekindle some of that.

George was not radiating bonhomie. He nodded at Hermione then stared hot-eyed at Marcus, who was as ill pleased to see him. The witches exchanged brief greetings before herding everyone into the lodge.

Tamsin was there to welcome the Weasleys, with Terence at her side making an effort not to hide behind his out-going wife. The former Hufflepuff had done a lot to ease her husband's social anxiety but he still reached for her hand under the wattage of George's glare.

“We have hot chocolate in the solarium, or I could take the kids out to make maple snow.” Tamsin offered after the stilted introductions. George objected but Angelina overrode him. Nine year old Fred looked a little rebellious at being take away from what was fixing to be a stellar argument but he went at his mother's insistence. Roxy immediately struck up a conversation with Livia, chatting happily as they were led away by Mrs Higgs.

Terence kept his nerve, showing his guests to one of the parlours. He'd had the fireplace lit with apple logs so the room was fragrant and cosy. He poured drinks, offered snacks then at a nod from Marcus, thankfully excused himself from the private conversation.

“Still skittish.” George remarked after the slight Slytherin had slithered off. He was surprised to see the former Seeker had a wife, particularly Tamsin, who had once kicked him in the head after he'd clipped her with a Bludger. Hufflepuff fair play went only so far with a House Cup on the line.

“He doesn't like conflict.” Hermione looked pointedly at George's clenched hands.

“Which is why we're here.” Angelina spoke quickly before her husband could pick a fight with Flint, who was loafing on the sofa sipping pear schnapps. She'd never liked him and couldn't figure out how he had convinced Hermione to put up with him. Unless the crusading witch thought of him as just another house elf. “Ginny's book is awful.”

“We know.” The Flints spoke almost in tune, a harmony that taxed George's self-control a touch too much.

“He's got you well trained.” He muttered. He hadn't wanted to come. But Angelina was understating how horrible his sister's memoir had made them feel. All that spite, all those lies. They couldn't side with that sort of poison.

Both wives fixed their husbands with quelling looks. Marcus raised his glass to Hermione. Despite a debt owing for cracked ribs, he had promised not to verbally antagonise Weasley. He would abide by that vow, as it was apparent he didn't have to say a damn thing to rile the redhead.

“Sorry, Hermione.” George took a gulp of his drink. It was good stuff. It tasted fruity and burned all the way down. “Is this Muggle liquor?”

“It's a local spirit, yes. Terence and his father-in-law went on a distillery tour the year before last. Mister Applebee's family used to make cider so he got quite nostalgic.” Hermione was deliberately filling in the conversational gaps, giving the Weasleys time to broach the uncomfortable topics.

“You sound quite close. Must be, I guess, to stay here.” He made an absent gesture from Hermione to the oak panelling. The Muggle-born witch looked perfectly at ease in a Slytherin den. Or was it a nest? George had never squared in his head that snakes had nests. Pits, yes. Holes, possibly though that was more a badger thing. He sighed. “We didn't want you to think we were onside with what Ginny wrote.”

“She wouldn't listen to us.” Angelina continued, stepping up for her husband when he turned morose. “She wouldn't listen to anyone. Bill threatened to take her to St Mungo's he was so worried. She's been really depressed since she was cut from the National team.”

“Her form wasn't great and that loss to Burkina Faso was shocking. I wasn't surprised when heads rolled.” Marcus didn't play professionally any more but he followed Quidditch closely. He'd treated a dozen of his friends to World Cup tickets last year and had shouted himself hoarse when Moldova won.

“She's convinced you got her dropped from the team.” George half-accused, aware Flint had a lot of contacts in the Quidditch world. And money.

“I thought about it.” He answered unblushing. “But Hermione asked me to restrain myself, then all those late nights partying started affecting her performance. Your sister sabotaged herself.” Marcus dared Weasley to object. He was a good player himself and knew how hard it was to stay on top of your game.

“We tried to talk to her about that too.” Angelina had tried. Everyone had tried. “Ginny's desperately unhappy.”

“There are counselling services she can use.” Hermione suggested, telling herself that as vicious as Ginevra Weasley had been to her, this was the time to be the better person. “Padma is doing a psychology degree. She'd be able to find Ginny someone discreet.”

“Last time we mentioned anything like that, we got our heads bitten off.” His little sister had hexed him and stormed out of the room, refusing to speak to him for weeks. “It's really bad at home. Everyone's walking on eggshells.”

“I saw your parents at the Wizengamot. I didn't try to talk to them. I'm sure Molly still thinks I'm a whore.” From Angelina and George's careful expressions, Hermione saw she was correct. “Ginny might get away with just a fine. I don't know. I've tried to keep away from the case.”

“We saw you weren't there.” Angelina had gone once to show support but seeing Ginny and her solicitor defending that muck had made her feel ill. “Ron said he'd told you. That you'd got the law through to try to protect Harry.”

“The legislation exists to protect everyone. The wizarding press has a shocking lack of oversight. A fair chunk of the law comes directly from Muggle statutes.” Ever since Rita Skeeter's first hatchet job on her, Hermione had wanted to put some recourse in place for the victims of such yellow journalism. “It wasn't just for Harry. I was hoping Ginny would see that it wasn't worth it.”

“No chance of that.” George sighed wearily. “It's bloody miserable at the Burrow. Has been for years. There's still empty places at the table.” He missed his brother every day. Angelina and the kids made it better, but the void couldn't be filled. “You and Harry should be there.”

“Your mother threw us out like rubbish. And she's in danger of losing Ron too. Jenny feels like she's invisible.” Hermione hadn't expected to get along with the American witch as well as she did. After Marcus had told her what Jenny had said at the Independence Day barbecue, she'd taken the risk of sending the first email. They'd corresponded regularly ever since.

“Mum finds it hard to forget. With us all out of the Burrow, she doesn't have anything to do. So she stews on things.” He didn't tell Hermione that one of the rare rows he'd had with Angelina was over Molly's interference. There had been a few too many sharp comments about Angelina staying over at her father's place to look after him when she should be looking after George.

“She could volunteer. She could stand for the Prewett Seat in the Wizengamot.” The words came out of Hermione's mouth in spite of her inward cringe. Having Molly there glaring at her across the chamber would not add lustre to her day. “Maybe counselling for her too. Your mother's been through two wars. That'd scar anyone.”

They talked more easily now the sensitive issues had been broached. Marcus mostly kept his mouth shut, watching his wife negotiate a détente with the Weasleys. George, Angelina, Fred and Roxy stayed for lunch. It was still tense in places but much better than the drab truce that had previously been between them.

Hermione waved as the Weasleys took their Portkey back to England then stood pensively knee deep in snow. Marcus hugged her and she leaned into his embrace.

“They're going to hate me if Ginny goes to Azkaban.” She closed her eyes, finding comfort in her husband's strong arms.

“Probably.” Marcus agreed. He was no stranger to being hated. “We will endure. We are Flints.” He felt her chuckle. “Too much?”

“You are cute when you're resolute.” Hermione smiled up at him. “And you're right. Let's have some cocoa and wait for the storm.”


	9. Sentence

25th April 2011

In the end, it was the little things that damned Ginny. She'd taken liberties with the truth. Hermione shook her head at her own internal monologue as she listened to the sentencing. Ginny had deflowered the truth in a filthy alley then made it walk the streets. She might've got away with it, except she'd got dates wrong.

Harry's very thorough Advocate had scoured every sentence in the awful memoir. Any mistake, misrecollection or outright misrepresentation had been flagged. Harry had submitted so many Penseives he'd temporarily lost track of time. Hermione had sat up with him as he had cried again for Remus, Tonks and Fred, and for that alone she'd happily see Ginny pilloried.

Ginevra Molly Weasley was found guilty of slander. Hermione tried to hide her grim smile as she stood in the crowd of clerks to hear the verdict. She'd Transfigured herself a disguise rather than run the gauntlet of the press. As an unremarkable wizard, she watched Ginny sit stone-faced as the fines were levied.

The penalties were individually moderate. When they'd written the legislation, she and Theo had erred on the side of the average income. There was no facility for punitive damages. So in theory no one would be beggared by the fines. Except Ginny had racked up an impressive number of them.

Non-payment ncurred a custodial sentence in Azkaban. Hermione had been campaigning hard for a new prison, somewhere with better conditions for non-violent offenders, but the wizarding world was still mired in the old punishment ethos. She had managed to get a work-release program passed but Ginny was unlikely to qualify for that as there were no placements on offer for retired Quidditch players.

Hermione didn't look at Molly and Arthur. She'd come back from the hunting lodge to witness the sentencing and felt guilty enough already without racking herself further. She hadn't wanted this to happen. If only Ginny had just not done it. Seen sense. Moved on with her life. Anything. Something.

In the Flint Rooms, she dropped her disguise then sat at her desk and stared at the worn oak. It wasn't her problem any more. She wasn't a Weasley. Wasn't even a friend of the family. Hadn't been for years. Wasn't welcome. The stupidity of a girl she'd known in school didn't have to impact her life at all. And if she repeated that enough she might even believe it.

A Portkey returned her to the lodge. Terence and Tamsin had been delighted to host them for the duration of the trial. Hermione hadn't wanted to overstay her welcome and had taken Mrs Higgs aside to have a quiet word about leaving, only to have the Hufflepuff alumna request that the Flints stayed.

If Hermione and her family were at the lodge, then naturally the junior Higgs couple would have to stay there. Which got them out of England, out of the ancestral Higgs estate and away from Terence's parents. Who were indelicately hinting they wanted grandchildren.

“It's not that we don't want kids. Just not right now.” Tamsin dropped onto the grass from her broom hovering above head height, giggling at Hermione's wince. “Featherfall Charm. I've broken enough bones playing Quidditch already. I know what I'm doing.”

“You're as bad as Marcus.” Hermione had changed out of her clerk robes, given herself a stern talking to in the bathroom then joined the general scrimmage on the butterfly lawn. Her husband was flying in slow circles with their son, showing the little boy how to steer.

“Not possible. I'm not a Snake.” The former Miss Applebee, now wife and daughter-in-law of Slytherins, quirked her mouth in a sly grin. “And it's not my daughter who is trying to make her training broom go faster.”

“When Livia's in the air she's Marcus's daughter. She's mine on the ground.” That was one of her firm rules. Hermione could endure being married to a Quidditch mad wizard and going to parties where everyone nattered on about games and manoeuvres and blather, but she didn't have to participate. She ran through molecular configurations in her mind and let Marcus network.

“I understand. Terence and Daddy keep sneaking off to astronomical conferences. Apparently people are still arguing about Pluto.” She waved as her husband crossed the lawn with a hamper floating behind him. He'd gone into the house for refreshments at her suggestion. They'd both noticed how tense Hermione was after returning from England.

“You will join us for the summer? All of you?” Hermione made sure to include both Zavier Higgs and Thomas Applebee in their social circle. She wasn't going to let anyone be sidelined by Squib or Muggle heritage.

“Pleased to, thank you.” Terence settled himself on the picnic blanket. “I was hoping to see Lucian again. He's never home. Last I heard he and his wife were in Laos.”

“Luna is turning Bole Hall into a sanctuary.” She had asked and had listened to the rambling explanation and then decided to leave Luna do to what she thought best. “I put her in contact with someone from the Department for the Regulation etc Creatures and suggested a few Muggle sources for animal welfare. Hagrid's helping her too.”

“I'll ask if she needs anything. I did my Care of Magical Creatures NEWT. The assessor had to ask me to stop talking.” Tamsin chuckled, still pleased by the wizard's boggled expression as she had bent his ear about Hippogriffs.

“While I'm finishing my thesis, Marcus is going to take Livia and Septimus and all our kneazles to the Boles. Apparently kneazles and children inspire a vibrant aura.” Hermione didn't roll her eyes because Luna and Lucian were very sincere in their care for creatures. Eccentric but sincere.

“How is the thesising?” Terence opened the hamper to dispense chocolate truffles before the children noticed. Hermione popped one whole in her mouth, savouring as the rich dark sweetness melted on her tongue.

“Now I can concentrate again, it'll be done in a week. Final edit and polish.” She didn't feel particularly mentally sharp in the aftermath of Ginny's trial but she'd put off her own obligations long enough. “I want it done. I'm tired of not seeing my kids and missing dinner.”

She ate nine dinners in her laboratory and five at midnight at Flint Manor having forgotten to eat at all those days. Marcus took the children to the Boles so she could rant at her computer in her study uninterrupted. The Flint elves kept her in tea and quills.

Hermione defended her thesis on the refinement of neuro-pharmacological treatments for chronic neurological damage on a Monday afternoon. She was thanked politely by the assessment board and given no hint of their opinion. Rather than fret in Oxford in the company of similarly fraught post-grads, she Apparated to the Ministry to fret in her office.

Opening the door of the Flint Rooms, Hermione paused. She had done a little redecorating to ease the green but nothing too dramatic. The dazzling red carpet was new. The witch blinked, realised as the first Howler levitated off the floor that the room was covered in them, and hastily slammed the door shut.

“Treacle!” Madam Flint summoned the house elf with a manic edge to her voice. She hadn't slept in thirty hours. Now she had to wait potentially for weeks to find out whether years of her life had been wasted.

Treacle appeared, politely attentive as the Mistress braced herself against the cacophony beyond her door. She could feel the red envelopes battering themselves against the banded oak. Hermione cracked the door open and when the blast wave of sound washed over them found she did not have to explain at all. Treacle sent her home with a promise to tidy the room of the nasty words.

Hermione Apparated to Flint Manor, stumbled upstairs, kicked off her shoes and fell headlong into her bed to sleep the sleep of the mentally scuppered.

She woke to someone rubbing her back and the smell of rose oil. Hermione breathed in slowly delighting in the scent and rolled her shoulders. Someone kissed the back of her neck.

“Not now, my husband will be home soon.” She murmured and Marcus laughed.

“I can take him.” He continued his massage, begun when she had started twitching her sleep. Hermione made a mocking noise into her pillow. He ran his thumbs down either side of her spine, chasing away the tension. She moaned.

Marcus worked the oil into her skin, pleased to keep making her make soft noises. He rolled her onto her back gently and began massaging her legs knowing they would be tense from sitting for long hours.

“Howlers.” Hermione mumbled, becoming aware of a warm breeze rather than the perpetual draughts of Flint Manor.

“Three hundred and ninety four of them.” Marcus had been impressed. When his wife did something, she was thorough. “Most in response to Weasley going to Azkaban.”

“What?” She opened her eyes, staring at her husband then at the unfamiliar décor. The self-indulgent white draperies on the four poster bed. The exotic flowers in porcelain vases. The ocean view out the French windows. “Where are we?”

“The Caribbean somewhere. Malfoy recommended it.” He shrugged. He'd taken a Portkey to inspect the exclusive wizarding resort the week before, liked what he'd seen and booked a holiday. “I enjoyed Palau but I also enjoy room service.”

“You want to watch Quidditch, don't you?” Hermione muttered, getting her brain up to speed. Her husband had apparently slung her over his shoulder and brought her here for the promised ravishing. “Who's looking after the kids?”

“Harry and Millie. They snuck back into the country but want to keep their heads down until the press maelstrom is over.” He kneaded his wife's calves, waiting for her next question.

“And Ginny?”

“Defaulted on her fines. Filed for bankruptcy. Maybe as a political statement. She has lodged an appeal.” Nott had briefed him on the legal shite and Marcus relayed it. He had brought the summary Theo had given him so Hermione could read it. Pragmatism told him he would get no peace until she knew everything.

“Why won't she just be told?” Hermione sat up and he handed her the report as he continued to massage. She read. She swore under her breath then got to a section that made her raise her eyebrows. “The Weasleys didn't post surety for the fines?”

“No.” Marcus had been surprised himself they had not spat up the funds to pay their sister's debt. The sum of the fines was more than most people would have easily to hand but between five brothers and two parents, the money could have been found. He presumed. Unless they'd beggared themselves even further during the war.

“Ron could pay it outright. I made him put his Order of Merlin money into a savings vault. He could put it against the fines. There are payment options included in the legislation.” She read the notes Theo had penned in the margin. “Theo thinks Ginny had this planned. The bankruptcy papers went through as soon as the fine lien did.”

“One more 'fuck you' to authority.” Marcus might have admired the nerve if it had been more strategic. Sticking two fingers up at the Wizengamot after being found guilty of your own stupidity did not engender respect.

“Damn. Damn. Damn.” Hermione muttered as she reviewed Theo's briefing. “She's trying to look like the victim. If we push the prosecution, we're going to be seen as vindictive.” She eyed her husband. “In between ravishings, is one permitted to correspond with Leota?”

“If you invite her and her girlfriend to join us.” He grinned and took the swat from the rolled up scroll with good grace. “The resort has the telephone. While I watch Quidditch, you may correspond as you wish, milady.”

“When's the next game?” She couldn't leave this to fester for a week.

“In about an hour. Island League finals. I was going to leave you to catch up on your sleep but you started twitching.” Marcus dug his thumb into a particularly tight knot and smirked at her. She took his point. “This suite has a ridiculous bathtub. You can marinade yourself while I am gone.”

“Thanks.” They didn't go in for terms of affection. It seemed trite to Hermione and Marcus only called her 'milady' when he was being formal or trying to annoy her. She reached out, caressing her fingers down his cheek. “You could join me now.”

Marcus missed the start of the game and they flooded the bathroom. Hermione went to bed decadently relaxed, sleeping until dinner. She didn't feel like making the effort of getting dressed so they ordered in, trying some of the local cuisine.

“I wonder why it's called mannish water?” Hermione ate goat soup with crusty bread sitting on their balcony in her bathrobe.

“Aphrodisiac.” Marcus leered at his wife's throat, deliberately sliding his gaze down to the curve of her breasts and lingering there until she threw a napkin at him.

“I could make you sleep on the couch.” She threatened as he laughed. “I have work I could be doing instead of lounging here catering to your puerile lust.”

“That has to be a quote.” He picked a strawberry out of the fruit salad and offered it to her. Hermione took it and licked the perfect redness with the tip of her pink tongue. Marcus was thankful for the ease of his own bathrobe.

“It is. When we passed the bill to give Hogwarts funds for a Health Education class, quite a few people objected to the sexual health component. There were some hilarious comments.” She had kept a list of the best ones to snigger over. “Apparently one lecture in fourth year by your Head of House is more than enough to answer all questions about personal private matters.”

“Was for me.” Marcus grimaced at the memory of Snape explaining male and female anatomy before adding that as Hogwarts did not offer a course on Tantric magic any extra-curricular experimenting would be cause for detention. “Worse for the girls.”

“McGonagall was quite good, really. It helped there were Muggle-borns in Gryffindor. My parents had already given me the Talk and a very handy book on human development.” Hermione didn't recall being particularly embarrassed but as her parents were both in Health Care, any questions she'd had as a child had been answered frankly. “I was surprised by the ignorance of my peers though.”

“I had to ask the house elves.” He could laugh about it now but he'd had no clue at all. Treacle's mother Caramel had been kind about it and had supplied him with the rudiments of understanding. He had at least not been as shocked as Warrington, who had been taken to a gallery of marble statues for his talk, to discover girls had hair down there.

“And yet you can get a Mastery in sex magic.” She bit her strawberry and rolled her eyes. The magical world was not logical but it did have perfect out-of-season fruit. “But only if you're married.”

“If that is your next scholarly endeavour, I will be delighted to assist.” Marcus grinned and caught the strawberry she threw at him. Short range, his wife had decent aim but otherwise, no. Their children would get their athletic gifts from him.

“My next endeavour will be convincing St Mungo's to allow patient access to Muggle medical technology. That will be a campaign and a half.” Hermione had a list she was slowly, irritatingly slowly at times, working through. “I need to get some Healers on-board.”

“I will talk to the League teams. I know the Magpies always got the best Medi-Witches and Wizards.” Young, ambitious Healers would levitate themselves to get the chance to work with Hermione Flint. “We could offer an apprentice position, several possibly if you go with your clinic idea.”

The difficulty of getting around the Statute of Secrecy had prompted Hermione to look into the feasibility of opening her own health care business. She had a legal identity in the Muggle world and therefore could work on both sides of the Statute. It would be expensive to lease medical equipment but far, far safer to do it in-house than send magical folk to the NHS.

“I'll need staff with Muggle citizenship and a very good accountant. The British government gets rather suspicious of people with spontaneous suitcases full of cash.” Creating a financial paper-trail was one of the reasons she had kept her parents' business open. She had signed over the lease of their premises to a colleague who thought the Grangers were volunteering in Africa.

“Zavier Higgs will know someone.” Terence's Squib cousin had a job doing something with money and Marcus considered him sensible. He didn't much care for the man's succession of gold-plated girlfriends, who reminded him of the women he used to date before the Ministry gifted him Hermione.

“True.” Hermione sighed, lounging back in her seat. “And if I'm dealing with a new business and all the guff that goes with it, I won't be worrying about my thesis approval.”

“Had no plans to mention that.” Marcus gave his wife a level stare over his rum and Coke. She nodded. Married life had given her partial telepathy. Hermione could certainly read her husband's mind. She had wound herself up and worked herself into exhaustion and he was worried about her.

“If the worst happens and they reject my work entirely, laughing as they kick me out the door, I will curse them and move on.” Hermione told herself and Marcus and the clear blue sea. She sighed again, knowing she would have to repeat the mantra quite often. “I love you for putting up with me.”

“I love you for working to become Doctor Hermione Flint.” He put his drink down and leaned across to kiss her lingeringly. She smiled into the kiss, untying the belt of her robe, baring herself to the night breeze.

Marcus kissed his way down her body, lingering at the curve of her throat, the slope of her breasts, the dimple of her belly button and finally at the pearl of her crux. Hermione let her eyes flutter closed as he traced her name and title over her clitoris, trying not to giggle as his hands slid up her sides to bring her closer.

She cast a darkness spell because while she was prepared to be seduced in the open air on a balcony, she didn't actually want all the world to see. Marcus demonstrated he had no objections to working by feel and Hermione had to try twice to cast a muffling charm. She was quite glad of the sound dampening magic when they knocked their plates over the balcony.

Their week away wasn't all sex. Hermione got some work done while Marcus went to Quidditch games and they ambled around the island making a token effort to look at things in between ravishings and naps. They went home at peace with the world.

It didn't last.

Hermione's first session back at the Wizengamot ended in a walk-out over international trade standards and a protest boycott of all pending legislation. Theo Nott hosted a morose strategy meeting in his Rooms as they tried to think of a way of salvaging months of work.

“Bloody cauldrons.” Hermione thumped a sheaf of notes onto Theo's desk and waved away an offered drink. “I've a meeting with my doctoral advisor in an hour. Showing up pissed and, well, pissed off isn't sensible.”

“Storming out of session because of one eighth of an inch of copper isn't sensible either.” Leota Yaxley, austere in Advocate's robes tossed back a finger of Firewhiskey then put her glass down. “There's something going on.”

“The Prewett and Weasley Seats are under review.” Theo said quietly, taking the two of them aside. “The honour sanction has been paid off.”

“What?” In her focus on finishing her thesis and her holiday, Hermione had missed that memo. Treacle was still intercepting her mail in her Rooms as there were still daily Howlers. “Who by?”

“I don't know. I just got the nod from Draco. His family were the ones who placed the sanction. Over a broken betrothal a couple of centuries ago.” The pure-blood wizard smiled when his Muggle-born friend rolled her eyes. “A matter of honour, Madam Flint.”

“That can be paid off apparently anonymously.” Hermione mopped her face with her sleeve. The room was warm. She pulled off her ridiculous hat. “Is it related to the walk-out? The Seat review is stalled until the Wizengamot reconvenes.”

“Possibly. I'll look into it.” Theo studied her face. “You look a little peaky, Hermione.”

“I'm tired. Finishing my thesis and all the fuss about Ginny really took it out of me.” She shrugged off her robes, revealing herself in a t-shirt and jeans because you could take the girl out of the Muggle world but not the Muggle out of the girl. “I'll head home. Pop over tomorrow afternoon with the committee and we'll see if we can work around this grandstanding.”

Theo left them to spread the word and Leota departed with Hermione as she was expected home for dinner. Finella understood the time commitments required of an Advocate and supported her girlfriend's work at the Ministry. But dinner together was sacrosanct.

They were heading to one of the Floo exits when they almost literally bumped into a furious Molly Weasley. The matronly witch had just stomped out of one of the meeting rooms when they turned the corner. Hermione stared at her while Leota bit back an exclamation.

“You!” Molly drew herself up. She'd had a long, frustrating day of filling out forms and confirming she was the last Prewett. Old grief stung afresh. “I hope you're happy. It's not enough to cheat on my son, you have to ruin my daughter's life too.”

“I am very happy, thank you.” Hermione replied coldly, feeling her face flush. She did not want to deal with this now. She was tired and lunch was sitting badly. “So is Ron. He and Jenny are really enjoying the States. I understand they're considering settling there permanently. I think I can confidently say he's got over his heartbreak.”

“And Ginny? You rammed through that law just to get her. Using all your Death Eater husband's corrupt friends, I expect.” Her daughter had been in tears for months. Years, really. All her going out and staying out was just a way to get away from her unhappiness. Molly was worried for her little girl, and found it all too easy to believe Hermione had conspired to make another of her children miserable.

“Marcus isn't a Death Eater. He never was. I can assure you I've seen every inch of his skin. No Dark Mark.” That was less decorous than it could have been but Hermione was tired of being the villain in the Weasley melodrama. 

“Once you get the Prewett Seat, Madam Weasley, you can review all the Wizengamot transcripts.” Leota intruded smoothly, aware they were attracting attention. “You can see exactly who voted for the slander bill. You will find it was overwhelming the old abeyed Seats, now filled by Muggle-borns and Squibs.”

“I won't get the Prewett Seat now! There's some political nonsense, which I am sure you've cooked up.” Molly wasn't certain what was going on. All she'd been told was that after weeks of hanging about at the Ministry, she would have to reapply and go through all the rigmarole again.

“While it's flattering you think I'm Machiavelli, I didn't stop your Seat application. The nonsense is over import regulations. Which is public record.” Hermione swallowed on a tide of nausea. She was definitely regretting the fish soup for lunch now. “And if you can pay the lien, with centuries of interest, then you certainly can pay Ginny's fines. Though I do wonder if you've read the bloody book.”

Molly opened her mouth to reply. Hermione saw her speak but couldn't hear her over the rushing noise in her own ears. She felt her head loll forward as the hall dimmed. She hit the floor and then nothing.


	10. Contemplation

26th April 2011

Livia sat on the uncomfortable chairs in the waiting room reading her storybook. Uncle Neville had brought her to the hospital as soon as the owl had come. The Healers had explained that her mother had fainted but she wasn't badly hurt. They would look after her.

Livia hadn't rolled her eyes at that or said it was their job to look after people. Instead she'd gone to the waiting room like they'd asked while Uncle Neville went outside to telephone her father. She hadn't said the hospital could have done that, if they had telephones instead of owls.

“Hello, there.”

Livia looked up at the woman with red hair who was standing in the doorway like she had forgotten something. She was a witch because she gave Livia that tingle creepy feeling she felt around magic people. She was also wearing too many patterns on her clothes, which Muggles never did. Unless they were the funny spiky hair people.

“Hello.” Livia replied because it was polite and she was supposed to be polite. Even to her little brother, who was a pest and moved her crayons around so they were out of order. On purpose.

“I saw you come in with Neville. My son was in his year.” Molly said to the dark haired little girl. She was reading a book with a tree on the front cover, which made her smile. Neville was certainly starting his daughter early with Herbology.

“I know, Mrs Weasley.” Livia knew who she was because her parents had talked about her pictures in the newspaper and because there had been photographs of her in the old albums her mother had shown her. Which had made her mother cry. Livia had made careful note of that.

“Oh, he's told you about me?” Molly had been hurt when Neville had taken Hermione's side. That excuse about Flint being his cousin hadn't held water with her. The Weasleys were cousins to the Blacks. That did not mean they popped over for dinner. “I knew your mum too. Not very well but she seemed a nice girl.”

“She is.” Livia agreed, though she didn't think her mum was a girl. She was a Doctor and had two jobs. And she could Apparate, which you weren't allowed to do until you were really old. “Are you going to sit down?”

“I'm not really waiting.” Molly wasn't sure why she was there. When Madam Flint had collapsed and that po-faced hag had Apparated her to St Mungo's, she had followed. If it had been some sort of stunt to get out of a well deserved ear-bashing then it wouldn't work.

Except it seemed that the faint wasn't fake. The Healers had whisked that madam away to a private room while the other one had rushed off somewhere. Leaving Molly standing there with the bristles off her broom.

“You seem like you are.” Livia pointed out, she thought quite sensibly, People didn't hang about in doorways for no reason. 

“What are you reading?” Molly asked, taking a seat as she had to admit she was hovering. St Mungo's had a great many memories, surprisingly mostly good. She wondered idly if she hadn't had Bill so early if she might've become a Healer. But she'd wanted to feel safe, which was what she felt with Arthur. Still did.

“The Secret Garden. A Muggle woman wrote it.” Putting her finger in to keep her place, Livia showed the witch the cover of her book. “I like this one better than A Little Princess, because I would've made the girls stop being nasty to me.”

“I haven't read either of those.” She smiled at the little girl's earnestness. Definitely a Hufflepuff mother, though she couldn't see much of Hannah Abbott in her. Perhaps that would change as she grew. Percy had looked nothing like either of them as a boy but now he was a man, he could've been Arthur's brother.

“Mr Cresswell, he's my tutor, picked it for me. He says Muggle, um, literature is broader than the stuff wizards write.” Livia was pleased with 'literature'. She'd been practising the word.

“Cresswell? One of Dirk's boys?” Molly had liked the Cresswells. They'd often popped over to tea so their children could play together. But after Dirk was murdered, Dawn had cut all ties and left England with her sons.

“Yes. Mr Creswell showed me his father's name on the memorial. We always go there on the anniversary. Mummy says it's important to remember.” Livia didn't understand what she was supposed to remember but when she'd asked her father, he'd said it was better to forget.

“I haven't been able to bear going.” She didn't want to see Fred's name or Gideon's or Fabian's. Or the names of her school friends. Or all those people who had come to her home, shared her food, been made welcome, and then never returned. Empty places at the table.

“Mummy goes to her room to cry afterwards.” Biting her lip, Livia stopped. Maybe she shouldn't have said that. Mrs Weasley seemed friendly but she was mean to Uncle Harry and her mother.

“Your mum and dad don't share a room?” Molly asked, sensing gossip. If there was trouble at home, maybe Hannah needed someone to talk to. If she could help the younger woman patch things up then maybe Neville would let her visit. She'd been so close to Frank and Alice.

“Her room room, not her bedroom. Her room where she keeps all her books that we're not allowed to touch.” Livia pouted. Her mother had a lot of books and really interesting things in jars and lots of pictures of brains. But her room was absolutely off limits.

“Your mum has a lot of books?” That surprised her as Hannah, according to Ron, had rather lost the plot in her OWL year. Hufflepuffs slogged through but they weren't known for being academic.

“Oh yes. I thought you said you knew her?” Livia was suspicious now. Anyone who knew her mum knew about all the books. Even granddad had noticed the new wing on the library.

“We haven't spoken for a long time. They don't visit the Burrow any more.” Her home felt empty. She rattled around in it, trying to cheer up Ginny, trying to support Arthur in his new job that kept him out at all hours, and trying to see her grandchildren despite her daughters-in-law always being too busy.

“People come to visit us all the time.” She listened in sometimes but mostly the talk was dull about Ministry stuff and laws. “Uncle Harry and Auntie Millie are staying with us with Jamie. He's boring.”

“Harry and Millie.” It wasn't a question but it did feel like a betrayal. Neville's excuse about family was at least accurate, for all it hadn't saved Alice. But Bulstrode was nothing to him. And Harry had named his boy, a Slytherin's son, after his father. James would've been spitting mad.

“You look tired.” Livia knew she wasn't supposed to make personal remarks because her mother said it was rude. But Mrs Weasley's face had gone grey like her granddad's did when he wasn't feeling well.

“I am. So tired.” Molly answered wearily. Nothing she did seemed to help Ginny, who swung from angry to sad like a dizzy gnome. “I don't know what to do.”

“Are you waiting to speak to my father?” The little girl suggested, wondering if it was polite to tell the lady to go home to bed. It probably wasn't. When she got told to go to bed, it was usually because her parents were cross.

“Oh, no, dear. Neville and I haven't talked for years.” Frank's boy had been such a nice little chap. Perhaps not the boldest lad but he'd come good. And like Harry, he'd dropped them in favour of Madam Flint. She wasn't even sure what he was doing with himself nowadays.

“Uncle Neville is my cousin.” Livia corrected, not offended that she'd been mistaken for a Longbottom because they were a good family and Uncle Neville was very brave. But she was a Flint. “My father's name is Marcus Flint.”

Molly stared at the girl in the blue smock and sensible shoes. She knew Flint had got children on his wife. That was the whole point of the marriage now, she expected, on his side at least. The Flint name had been scrubbed up and was apparently respectable again.

“Your mother is Hermione Granger?” Molly asked because the child was looking at her expectantly. Pushy little thing, but that was inevitable considering her parents.

“You make her cry.” That was a very important thing because her father said to always get even when someone hurts you.

“She deserves to!” The malice sounded very loud in the confines of the waiting room. The acoustics echoed Molly's words back to her. Was that how she sounded? Like Walburga Black shrieking with shrill bitterness?

“You're not her mother. You don't get to punish her.” Livia was very sure on who could tell her what to do. Her mum and dad could, and granddad, and Mr Cresswell. And her aunts and uncles. But that was it until she went to school. Then she'd have to listen to her teachers. But until then, nobody else got to boss her around.

“She hurt my children.” Molly said the old excuse as though hearing it for the first time. How old was the girl? Six? Seven? Ron's eldest was nine. Had it been that long?

Livia watched as the red haired witch stood abruptly. She left the waiting room, going out into the hall without saying goodbye. The crack-bang of her Apparating away made Livia frown. That was rude. She went back to reading her book and waiting for her father.

Marcus Flint had been showing his son around the Montrose stadium and doing some covert recruiting for his wife's clinic idea. The Magpies were still one of the more conservative teams in the League, with only one Muggle-born on the team and a handful on staff. As Mr Hermione Granger, they were avid to listen to him.

Septimus charmed too. Totally fearless, he climbed onto anything that stayed still long enough. He got onto one of the new Firebolts and would've done himself a mischief except he couldn't figure out how to start the broom. He sat on it and made whooshing noises.

Marcus was too much of a Slytherin to openly fuss over his son as the upswell of pride he felt filled him almost to bursting. Hermione would hate it, even as she cheered their boy, but Septimus was born to fly.

“Flint!”

He didn't have the battle honed instincts of his wife or her heroic friends. It'd been more than a decade but the former DA still got together to practise duelling. He'd joined in once Livia had arrived because no one would ever survive hurting his children. Thus far, his training hadn't been tested. But when his name was called in that frantic tone, Marcus was not alarmed.

He grabbed Septimus and got his wand out, turning with a Shield Charm ready. His family hadn't been overtly attacked. Poison pens and Howlers, bitter words in print and shouted but no curses yet. He was wary though. He had a lot to lose.

“Marcus!” Neville's long legs had covered the endless stadium stairs and the long corridor into the dingy interior of the offices. Montrose spent money on the fans and the team. The unseen employees could make do. He expected the paint on the walls was older than he was.

“Neville, breathe.” Marcus didn't relax. He did stuff his wand in his pocket to have a hand free to check his phone. He'd turned off the chime so the damn thing didn't peal the hours in his pocket. It was supposed to shake to let him know if there'd been a call. If Hermione had tried to get in touch with him for the obvious emergency that had sent his cousin to Scotland to retrieve him.

“Hermione fainted.” Neville sucked in a lungful of air after he got out the important details. He huffed through some more information as he got his wind back. “She's alright. Over did things at the Ministry.”

“Fine.” Marcus focussed on 'alright'. His wife pushed herself, over-worked and tried to single-handedly reshape the world. That was all fine if she was alright. “Why did you run?”

“It was quite a bad faint. Leota Yaxley took her to St. Mungo's.” He wasn't on a first name basis with Ms Yaxley but they were friendly socially. They simply didn't have much in common and the Durmstrang alumna was inclined to be formal. Nice woman, just chilly.

“Right.” Stuffing his phone back into his trousers, Marcus fixed his attention keenly on his cousin. “And what are you not telling me?”

“I'm sure Hermione would want to tell you herself.” Neville hedged, trying to hint it was good news without actually saying anything. Hannah had been vexed with her step-mother for breaking the news of her second pregnancy to him before she had the chance.

“Would she now?” Marcus continued to stare at his cousin, willing him to confess. Neville's chin rose defiantly. A slow smirk twisted the Slytherin's mouth. “Really?”

“The Medi-wizard said so. But you bloody well have to act surprised when she tells you.” He stuck out his hand and Marcus shook it. They Apparated together to St Mungo's.

“Daddy!” Livia had peeked out the waiting room door when she heard the Apparition noise and ran to her father when he appeared in the hallway. He scooped her up and with both children in his arms marched into his wife's hospital suite.

Hermione was clearly not in a happy mood. The Healer attending her already looked mulish and they were arguing about something. Marcus set Septimus and Livia down so they could rush to their mother and clamber into her bed, distracting her.

“Hello there.” Hermione hugged her kids, shooting a last stubborn frown at the Medi-wizard, who gave her husband a sympathetic look as he went. “Hi, Neville!” She waved to her good friend loitering in the doorway. “Marcus, I'm glad you're here.”

“I cannot say the same.” Marcus swept a pointed look at the room. He hated hospitals. Muggle or magical it didn't matter. “Livia, Septimus, go with Uncle Neville. He will let you eat something you mother forbids.”

“Bubblegum ice cream!” Septimus squealed, abandoning Hermione to rush to Neville. Livia solemnly returned her mother's hug then asked for permission to go. Trying not to laugh, Hermione granted her leave for ice cream. Neville got a slightly more friendly stubborn frown, which he ignored. He still owed Hermione for giving Frank and Alice gummy bear cupcakes.

Marcus sat down on the bed beside his wife so he could argue with her without looming. She foiled that plan by hugging him, silencing him with a kiss.

“Baby.” She murmured then sighed. “Another one.”

“Well, I am happy about it but I thought you had fixed the problems with the potion.” Marcus stroked her hair, toying with the rebellious curls springing loose from her chignon.

“I had!” Hermione huffed. The Contraceptive Potion she had been using, the recipe for which she had submitted to the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers for approval and distribution, was perfect. “But it doesn't do much when you forget to take it.”

“So I do not need to say a word about you being tired or spending too long at work or burning your candles at both ends.” Marcus made no effort not to sound insufferably smug. She could argue with him, she did often, but she couldn't argue with the evidence she had provided herself. She only ever forgot important things when she was exhausted.

“The damn Healer wants me to take leave. I'm apparently wan. That probably translates into borderline anaemic. He gave me a long list of potions.” She grumbled, settling into her husband's embrace. He kissed her affectionately on the forehead. “I know, I know. I will take some time off. We're in recess anyway. Stupid walk-out.”

“I marvel at my own powers of persuasion.” Marcus slid his hand to her stomach. “Another Slytherin, soon to bend the world to their will.”

Hermione hit him with a pillow.

The five of them went home to share the news with Harry and Millicent. Neville fetched Hannah and their children, and they had an impromptu little celebration.

Later when the Potters had retired to the guest wing, the Longbottoms had gone home, sugared up Livia and Septimus had finally been persuaded to go to sleep, and Hermione was enjoying a long soak in the bath, Marcus went to speak to his father.

Octavius was standing at his window staring out at the greenhouses. Potted ferns decorated the sill and he idly stroked the soft fronds. The Flints had sponsored several Herbological expeditions to Palau, resulting in the rediscovery of many species thought extinct.

“Have you eaten?” Marcus asked as his father often forgot even with house elves reminding him.

“Don't nag me, boy.” Octavius said brusquely. “Treacle brought me some cake.” He eyed his son, who had crossed his arms over his chest and was staring impassively. “Which I ate.”

“Hermione is pregnant.” He relayed the news before he became irritated with his father. They still had a difficult relationship, which like the greenhouses and the stubbornness was unfortunately a Flint tradition.

“Good.” The older wizard snapped. Marcus was good for that at least. Hermione, remember her name, you like her, he chided himself, Hermione was a good wife and a good Lady of the Manor. The whole house felt much, much less empty. Happier, he supposed. But there were little things that were off. “She isn't a pure-blood, is she?”

“No, father.” Marcus had been waiting for this conversation for eleven years. He uncrossed his arms, leaving them loose at his sides. Standing easy and ready. He didn't expect violence. His father had never been a bully. Marcus had fallen into that habit on his own.

“Good.” Octavius could recall being so sure about things, a long time ago. Sure and safe, surrounded by school chums then by men of influence. When he'd ascended young to the Head of the House after his father had succumbed early to his own apoplectic temper, he'd been free. Sure, safe, free and deeply in love with a sweet girl his father would never have chosen for him.

And then it had all gone wrong. The politics had got darker. The coded language about revolution had become blunt. The threats more obvious. He was still safe but much less sure. He'd kept his mouth well shut and protected his family. Most of his family.

“The little girl's name is Alice.” He'd heard the children laughing and had gone down the back stairs to check on them. Octavius was too tired to play today but he liked watching the young Flints amuse themselves. They'd had some friends with them.

“Livia.” Marcus corrected, eyes narrowing. His father had never got that wrong before. Mrs Shaw had started him on some new treatments. Were they making him more muddled not less?

“Not my granddaughter. The fair girl who was here today.” There had been a boy too, slightly older, but he hadn't heard his name. “Her name is Alice.”

“Yes.” Marcus confirmed. This was another conversation he'd been grimly anticipating.

“Longbottom?” Octavius asked, his face crumpling into tears. Alexandra had been very close to her sister. There'd been less than two years between them. Of course, once Alice became an Auror, he couldn't welcome her at Flint Manor but he knew his wife used to sneak out to see her.

“My cousin Neville and I are friends.” He asserted curtly as though their good relationship had just started one long weekend while neither of them were paying attention. His father didn't need to know Hermione had all but resorted to blackmail to get them to talk.

“Friends?” The word didn't make any sense. Friends? His son and the boy orphaned because he, Octavius, hadn't thought to warn his sister-in-law? He had trusted his friends to know where to draw the line, and they hadn't.

“I stood up with him at his wedding.” Marcus hesitated and despised himself for hesitating then approached his sobbing father to put a hand on his arm.

“And he brings his children to this house?” Octavius struggled to collect himself, not to be weak, not to shake. Not to remember the furious Aurors coming to his home, hauling him out in the middle of the night to the Ministry and interrogating him for hours before telling him bluntly, brutally that it was his fault his sister-in-law would never know her own son.

“Often, and my children visit his. Livia was there today for a play-date with Frank.” He found some fucking compassion to console his own father rather than stand there like a golem. “He understands. Neville does not blame you.”

“I didn't warn them.” The confession seemed to come from the depths of the old man's soul. “I let Alice die.”

“There was a prophecy. Riddle went after the Longbottoms and the Potters because of a drunken Seer's babbling.” Hermione had told him all about Trelawney's forecast, the Department of Mysteries, the lot. Marcus doubted Dumbledore had bothered to warn the Longbottoms either.

“A prophecy?” Octavius sniffed derisively. He found a handkerchief and tried to restore his dignity. “Superstitious nonsense.” He had cheerfully avoided all the books he could during his years at Hogwarts, Divination most especially. “Drivel.”

“Riddle believed it.” And after learning that, Marcus had been very thankful his father sent him away during the war. Being branded by a lunatic would have been a fast road to damnation.

“He killed Eileen's son's sweetheart.” That the Snape boy loved a Muggle-born was a bit of gossip he'd heard from Lucius when they'd all been in their cups. Eileen Prince had been a friend, until she married that Muggle. They'd been in the Gobstone Club together. “He killed so many people.”

“He did. Not you.” Marcus insisted. Octavius nodded dully.

“I'm tired. I think I will go to sleep.” He turned away, shuffling towards his bed. “Please tell Alice's boy we have some of his mother's things. Seems right they go to his little girl.”

Marcus agreed then went to find Hermione. She was still in the bath, idly charming the bubbles into different colours. He stripped off and joined her, pulling her close.

“Are you okay?” Hermione wrapped her arms around him, feeling his tension.

“I'm fine.” Marcus took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of her hair. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “Everything is fine.”


	11. Absence

19th September 2011

 

Hermione was five months pregnant for her thirty-second birthday. The Wizengamot was on half-duties with the prolonged walkout, all their friends with Hogwarts age children had packed them off and were still remarking on how quiet it was, but what she noticed was her cat.

Crookshanks had been fussing for weeks. The other cats in the house, mostly his offspring with Bole's kneazle Estelle, had stopped disputing with him about rights to the sunniest spots or comfiest seats.

Hermione watched him now dosing on her father-in-law on a sofa. Both wizard and cat looked washed out. Octavius had been feeling poorly over summer, complaining of the heat. His carer, Mrs Shaw, had concurred with the family that he needed to see a Healer but Octavius had refused to go to St Mungo's for a check-up.

When Treacle heard his Master fall out of bed in the middle of the night, he'd immediately Apparated Octavius to the wizarding hospital on Hermione's standing instructions. Marcus had stood vigil over his father until he roused then they'd had an argument heated enough to see Marcus ejected from the ward.

Apparently Octavius had been having chest pains for weeks and had said nothing, attributing his discomfort to the weather. The damage to his heart was beyond easy mending and the regeneration potions didn't take well, a side-effect often seen in former inmates of Azkaban.

Octavius Flint was dying.

Hermione had made appointment with Squib doctors, bringing them to the Manor as her father-in-law wouldn't leave. He'd started locking his door at night so they couldn't sneak him out to the hospital while he slept. He wouldn't take the Muggle medication the doctors prescribed, not even when Hermione ground up the pills and suspended them in an inert potion medium.

Octavius had put on a good show for Livia's birthday in June but by Septimus's birthday in July he was short of breath and the little boy noticed when his grandfather couldn't play with him. Hermione had the same talk with her children as her parents had when her mum's mum died. Marcus argued with his father.

Her husband was out in the arbour digging holes for the new trellis. By hand. The weaker his father got, the more they fought and the more time he spent in the garden taking out his emotions on the landscape.

He'd remembered her birthday, buying her thirty-two wisteria vines. They wouldn't flower for a few years but when they did, Millettia Satsuma bloomed a dark purplish red, the nearest he could find for Gryffindor colours. It would be beautiful.

“You're not going to stay with me to see the new baby, are you, Crooksie?” Hermione asked quietly, crouching as best as she could to pet her familiar's felt soft ears. He purred rustily, opening one eye to blink at her slowly. The once lambent brightness had faded.

“I didn't ask him to keep me company.” Octavius's voice, as rough as the cat's, startled her. She had thought him heavily asleep. The grey tinge to his skin was made obvious by the pallor of sleep and there was a bluish undertone to his lips.

“If you shoo him away, he'll only come back more persistent.” The witch remarked, shifting into an armchair as her ankles protested. This pregnancy was more comfortable than the first two except for her swollen legs. The early dizziness had thankfully passed quickly.

“My son or the kneazle?” He wheezed, trying to laugh but not having the air or the verve for it.

“Marcus loves you. He doesn't want you to go.” Hermione said it because her husband never would. Octavius made a face but waved her away when she offered him a pain potion.

“We've never been close. He blamed me for his mother dying, and he was right.” The wizard stopped talking to resist a cough, shifting on his side to ease the pain in his back. He cradled Crookshanks as he moved so the cat wouldn't be tipped off onto the floor. “I never knew what to say to him. He's too much like my father.”

“Telling him that would be a good start.” Teenagers were difficult and Marcus admitted he'd been more difficult than most. All his frustrations at school, his feelings of helplessness and loss over Alexandra's death he had projected onto his father. His exile in Moldova at the height of the war had been the final grudge. “Or leaving memories for a Pensieve if you feel you can't talk.”

“You care for him.” Octavius said, as though he was surprised and thought her biased. “I know you only married him because of that bloody stupid law.”

“We divorced.” Hermione settled in to explain, petting Crookshanks to keep the conversation non-confrontational. “We remarried because we wanted to, because we loved each other. The Marriage Law was incidental.”

“He never would've looked at a Muggle-born without it.” He muttered. At her glance, the pallid wizard frowned. “I can read, unlike my idiot son. He didn't tell me but your picture is always in the Prophet. Marcus thinks I don't know.”

“He didn't want to argue with you.” She hadn't pushed for her husband to tell his father the truth. It made no difference to her. All she had to do was roll up her sleeves and everyone could see her blood status.

“He doesn't trust me.” Octavius had believed what he was told, what they were all told. He'd parroted it to his son when Marcus was a boy. But after he'd come back from that place, blood didn't seem to matter any more. Too much had been spilled. “He thinks I'm like Nott and that pillock Dolohov.”

“If he didn't trust you, if we didn't trust you, there is no way we'd allow you near Livia and Septimus.” Hermione said mildly, downplaying the absolute embargo that would have happened if she'd had any suspicion her father-in-law was a threat.

“He's good with them.” He conceded on a sigh. He'd watched Marcus play with his children in a way he never had. Alexandra had tried to encourage him to spend time with the boy but there had been so much to do, dinner parties and hosted meetings. Important things that had turned to dust.

“He is.” She smiled, thinking of Marcus playing trains with his four year old son, who insisted that Daddy make all the right noises. Which Marcus did. “You'll miss out on so much. There are rituals we could try and Muggle operations that might work. You could have years more with your grandchildren.”

“I've had years.” Octavius spoke quietly, his hand touching hers in Crookshank's fur. “I wanted him safe. Tom would've taken him from me. So I sent him away.” He grimaced at a deep stabbing ache and didn't resist when Hermione held him against her to drip a pain potion into his mouth. The floating numbness made everything foggy. He hated that. “He's safe now. It's all right now.” He breathed a little easier. “You'll keep him safe, clever girl.”

Octavius Flint died the day after his son's birthday. A late gift, Marcus snarled when he stormed out of the room. The Healers had said nothing. The bereaved were allowed to be angry and the elder Flint had been a difficult patient. Hermione quietly arranged the funeral and gave a terse statement to the press when she was ambushed leaving St Mungo's.

Flint Manor was quiet. The Potters were looking at houses, Septimus was with Neville and Hannah, and Livia had gone with her tutor to the British Museum. They would collectively be back for dinner, before which she would tell the children their grandfather had crossed the Veil. Hermione went to Octavius's room with the vague urge to do something practical.

Crookshanks was on the bed, in the pool of sunlight from the window. She sat down beside him, her fingers trembling as she touched his head. He was cool. Gone. When Millicent found her, she was still sitting, shaking.

“Hermione.” Mrs Potter said with careful gentleness. The other witch pulled out a handkerchief and made a good effort at pretending to collect herself.

“It's alright. I knew this was coming.” She rubbed her legs, covertly checking if they'd fallen asleep while she had been oblivious to everything but the loss of the last tie to her parents. Her mum had adored Crookshanks. Her dad had complained about him shedding on the sofa, then slipped him bits of bacon when he thought no one was looking.

The ten year anniversary of their deaths had been fraught but cathartic. They had gone to Australia for the holiday season. A forty degree Celsius Christmas Day had seen them indoors eating ice cream for their Yule feast. New Year's Eve had been fireworks over the river. And the next day, she and Marcus had taken the children to the cemetery. He'd Apparated Septimus and Livia back to the hotel after a little while, to give her some time alone. She'd cried.

She was crying now.

Millie helped her wrap Crookshanks in a sheet. Hermione wondered if she should wait until the children were home so they could say good-bye then decided she didn't want them to remember the big orange cat as anything but alive. Livia and Septimus were old enough to understand about graves. Seeing the body wouldn't make the absence any more real.

Marcus and Harry were outside in the kitchen garden not talking. The two of them did that a lot, finding each other's company restful. Harry had joined Marcus's team in their recreational Quidditch League. Seeing 'Potter' on the back of a green uniform was incongruous, however it meant Harry could play with little fanfare. The Gryffindor team hadn't re-formed. Not the same without Fred.

Crookshanks went into the earth at the base of an oak tree. It was old, passed its prime but it would outlast them all. Harry and Millicent left them, going to intercept Jason Cresswell when he brought Livia back from their excursion. Marcus held his wife, envying her tears. He alternated between numb and furious. His father... he cut off that thought viciously. His father was dead.

“I have to go back to the hospital.” Marcus found something to say. He was Lord of the Manor now. Head of the House of Flint. Which he was obliged to tell everyone so they could condole. He would rather Crucio himself.

“I handled it.” Hermione loved her husband's strong arms, her shelter from the storm. He needed her now. She shook herself. “They'll do the preparation rituals there. I wasn't sure if you wanted to speak the last rites.”

“I don't.” He had said those stiff fucking meaningless words for his mother, stumbling and clumsy, embarrassing himself and her.

“I could write them out phonetically for you.” She offered and felt his hands clench on her back. “I won't make you. But if there's any little premonition that one day you might regret not doing something, you need to listen to it.”

“My father died in Azkaban.” Marcus growled, choking down a shout. “The man that came back was just some wizard who looked like him, who my mother pitied.”

“Marcus.” Hermione took a step back so she could look him in the eye.

“No.” He got his teeth into the word. “He deserves nothing from me.”

“Then do it for yourself.” She pushed, unwilling to leave this wound to scar. “It doesn't have to be public. We don't need to invite anyone. It could be just you and your dad. But don't do nothing.” Her eyes flooded with tears. “Damn it.” Hermione blinked fiercely. “It matters, being able to say good-bye. Give yourself that.”

There was no wake. No ostentatious funerary offerings or speeches. Octavius Flint joined his ancestors in the family crypt, in the double tomb with his wife. Marcus had railed against that. He and Hermione had a shouting match that lasted for two days until he had said she could do what she bloody liked and had gone flying.

The Wizengamot reconvened to acknowledge the passing of the patriarch of one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, a custom that Hermione shamelessly used to hammer through the review on the Weasley and Prewett Seats. She couldn't raise any of the reforms they had been slaving over or table any new legislation but the special circumstances that called everyone together for the Flint Seat applied for all the august families.

“To incestuous, elitist, nepotist bastards.” Lord Nott raised a glass of sparkling grape juice to the team who had dug up, translated from Middle English and confirmed the obscure amendment that had allowed him and Hermione to get something done.

“May they never read their own statutes.” Lady Flint met the toast. No one much felt like cheering. Padma, who had been instrumental in finding the loophole that had allowed them to pass the bill while the Wizengamot was in official mourning, was at home on Healer mandated bed-rest. Leota was stewing about every other bill in stasis while the International Departments brewed a new treaty on cauldrons. Their staff were frustrated by inactivity. The celebration broke up after one round of non-alcoholic drinks so everyone could go back to filing applications of extension with the Ministry to keep their legislation alive.

“I sent my condolences but Marcus hasn't replied.” Theo said once he and Hermione were alone in his office. “I could get some of the lads together and take him out for a drink.” He read her expression. “Several drinks.”

“We're not talking at the moment.” She leaned against his desk. Her back hurt. She would've loved a massage. “Marcus isn't sleeping much. I know he comes to bed but it's after I'm asleep and he's gone before I wake up. He goes flying a lot.”

“I'll owl Peregrine and Lucian. They're undemanding company.” He poured Hermione another juice, having been lectured by his wife's Healer about dehydration. She drank it without protest then excused herself to go to her own Rooms and shuffle parchment. Which she did for twenty minutes until the sensible little voice in her head told her to go home.

That night Marcus put the children to bed as normal and Hermione read stories, but husband and wife didn't speak. A group of Slytherins showed up, mostly former Quidditch players, all but levitating Marcus out of the house. She had a bath and went to bed early.

It was past midnight when Hermione roused as a large body joined her in their cavernous bed. The cold draught caused her to burrow deeper into the blankets. When he snuggled closer, putting his arms around her, she sighed.

“You smell of beer.” Not as badly as she had expected. He was back earlier too.

“I had two lagers and a Firewhiskey.” Marcus informed his wife. Mostly what he'd had was a longing to be home, out of the noisy pub. “I'm an old married man.”

“You're thirty-seven.” Hermione muttered, shifting so she could nestle against him.

“There were scantily dressed barmaids.” He smirked at the spousal noise of displeasure. “My first thought, I swear on my broom, was 'I hope they have a Warming Charm'.” That was when he knew he wasn't a young buck any more. He had responsibilities. Children he loved. A wife, who against all common sense, loved him. “I'm sorry.”

“I was thinking of you.” She said to her pillow, angry in that tired, unhappy way that fuelled grudges. “You need to talk to me when you're upset. Don't shut me out.”

“I didn't want to shout at you.” Marcus confessed, his hands smoothing over her rounded belly. He got a cautionary elbow in his stomach. “I know you're not made of glass.” He slid an arm under her so he could roll her over. “And I know everything you did was for me. I'm an arsehole.”

“Language.” Hermione chided him, smoothing a hand affectionately down his face. “I'll take shouting over brooding silence.”

“I didn't know him. So many different things made me angry, but that was what kept stinging.” He didn't think that made any sense. It was all he'd managed to figure out flying through squalls, letting the wind batter him hither and yon. “I grew up in his house. He paid for everything I needed. He saved me from the Dark Mark. But I couldn't tell you what his favourite food was or how he tied his tie. All I saw was a foolish man who never forgave himself for believing the same lies I believed.”

“I've never experienced that sort of alienation from my family.” She shifted the pillows so she could sit up. Marcus slid behind her to wrap himself around her, wanting to protect her from his own emotional turmoil. “But I expect Harry and Neville have.”

“They loved their parents.” He said into her hair, which smelled of cedar and rosemary.

“But they never knew them. Not as mum and dad.” Hermione laced her fingers with his, resting them over her stomach where their third child energetically kicked. “You don't have to bare your soul. Just talk. Maybe ask how they coped with it. I'm sure they trust you enough they'll open up to you.”

“Then we'll braid each other's hair and paint our nails.” Marcus grumbled, disliking her advice but not able to refute it. His cousin and his cousin-in-law would understand. They'd had it worse. At least his father had been present and compos mentis some of the time.

“You're supposed to be listening to me, not making sexist comments.” She warned, tartly. “Do you want to sleep in one of the guest rooms?”

“Not particularly.” He tightened his embrace, pinning her against him though careful not to compress her stomach. Too much pressure made her nauseous. Hugging his petite wife while she was pregnant took some contortion on his part. “I love you and I want to be with you.” Marcus smirked. “And this bed has the Acromantula silk sheets.”

“I am wise to your Slytherin machinations.” Hermione turned her head so she could kiss him, letting him change the subject. She wasn't fooled by his attempt to lighten the mood. It was late, though, and neither of them had been sleeping well. “Go slip a note under Jason's door. If he gets the kids breakfast, we can sleep in.”

Marcus found that idea extremely appealing. He padded off to do as suggested while Hermione mulled over the notion that she had been considering since the end of summer. Magic and an ultrasound had shown them they would have another boy. She wondered whether Marcus would like to name their son after his father. It probably was not the time to ask. But she would later, when he was more at peace. It seemed the right thing to do.


	12. Clinician

15th October 2012

Marcus hated hospitals. He had been infinitely relieved that Hermione had gone into labour suddenly at home on New Year's Day and had opted to give birth at the Manor attended by Millicent. Of course he would've gone to St Mungo's if she had wished but she hadn't needed to be admitted. Octavian had arrived with a minimum of fuss.

And had been called 'the baby' for almost two months before his stubborn father had admitted to himself that naming the child after the late Flint patriarch was what he wanted. Octavian Martin Flint was a now ten months old and helping his father mind the side door of the Granger Clinic.

Marcus hated hospitals but he was immensely proud of his wife's new venture. To spite the Ministry's bullheadedness about Muggle technology, Hermione had started a private medical firm. She planned to provide access to the latest diagnostic techniques both scientific and magical, subsidised where necessary.

He was less thrilled about the press. His wife's laudable and altruistic gesture in offering healthcare alternatives to St Mungo's had thrust her again into the forefront of the lingering social divides scarring wizarding society. Marcus had heard that last sentence from a speech from some windbag in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes.

Apparently, various people with too much time on their hands and ink for their quills had been writing to the newspapers, the radio and the Ministry about the encroaching Muggle culture. Mobile phones and computers were dangerous. GPS would penetrate their security wards. Wi-Fi would transmit their thoughts. Madam Flint's infernal machines would capture their souls in electronic prisons.

The slightest hint of pure-blood bias in any letter to the editor caused a tidal wave of acrimony. Reconstruction was complete. Reparations had been paid. But whenever anyone complained about anything someone else didn't like, the old feuds returned. He'd been asked by the sister of a Quidditch chum whether he allowed his wife to expose his children to telly-fission. She'd flinched when he'd shown her his smart phone.

A hand tapped on the glass, catching Marcus's attention. He set Octavian onto his play-mat then approached the door. He had the pass tokens to the wards on this floor so he could cross them without trouble but no one else could without his presence. Opening the first of the 'airlock' style doors, he stepped into the vestibule then shut the door behind him before opening the second door to admit a harried wizard.

“Montague.” Marcus eyed his friend. Graham looked like shite. “Who is the blonde girl?” He asked the security question, which got a short laugh and a wince.

“Malfoy.” Montague answered. He had mistaken Draco for a witch at a distance among the crowd of hopefuls at the try-outs for the Slytherin team. “The mouthy arse is still so pretty.”

“Pining?” He joked as he escorted the worn and pallid lab rat into the clinic. After the Vanishing Cabinet, Montague's headaches had got worse and worse. He'd scraped through his remedial OWLs but had to pull out of his Sixth Year after spending more time in the Hospital Wing than in class.

“I like my men with meat.” The exaggerated leer was reflex. His heart wasn't in it. “If I wanted to get away with something, today would be the day. There isn't a muckraker in Britain who isn't camped out on your doorstep.” Montague rubbed his face, noticing he hadn't shaved that morning. He thought he had, damn it. “Your wife wasn't being coy when she told me to sneak in.”

“Afraid not.” The press had got wind of some high profile patients due to visit the clinic and had taken it upon their collective selves to lie in wait. “Justin is trying to distract them with a news conference.” Marcus sneered. “Better to throw meat then let the dogs fight over it.”

“Nice image. Baying of the hounds.” The answering smirk had a bit more verve as Montague took a seat in the small lounge. The lighting was softer here and he could close his eyes against the dizziness. Most days it wasn't too bad but he'd slept poorly then had to take the Knight Bus. He hadn't flown a broom in years.

Montague roused to the sound of a quiet conversation, sitting up from where he'd slumped on the leather sofa. Marcus's wife, looking like a doll beside his bulk, was showing him something like a rectangular mirror. She tapped it when she noticed her patient and stowed the probably Muggle thing in a wide pocket in her white coat.

“Thanks for coming in today, Montague.” Hermione wasn't a fan of the pure-blood habit of addressing their peers by their surname but a great many witches and wizards preferred it. Keeping the use of personal names exclusively to family and close friends seemed disdainful to the Muggle-born witch. However, she wanted to avoid the endless 'madam' and 'mister' that resulted when traditionalists got on their high horses.

“No trouble.” He stood, keeping to himself the comment that if Marcus hadn't told him about his wife's research into chronic maladies he would still be drinking Firewhiskey for breakfast. Alcohol eased his headaches though stopping before he'd drunk so much he would be hungover was tricky. “Are you going to stab or electricate me today?”

“Electrocute.” She corrected automatically. “Neither, actually. The neurologist has seen your scan results would like to discuss them with you.” Hermione noticed the exchange of glances between Marcus and his friend. “It's not bad news. We'll have a treatment program for you but having some understanding of what's doing on in your brain will help you help yourself.”

“I just want the pain to stop.” Montague squared his broad shoulders. He'd faced needles and beeping machines and having things glued to his head. He could certainly face a middle-aged Squib not telling him bad news. “I can use the levitator. Third floor, room four?”

Hermione confirmed the destination then sent him on his way. Marcus watched the stocky wizard shuffle off without comment or expression. When Hermione put a hand on his arm, he covered hers with his.

“We can help him. We might even be able to cure him if we can tailor a healing protocol with St Mungo's.” The witch consoled. “It'll mean refining the specialised Vasodilator Charm for extra finesse. Definitely not a potion job.”

“St Mungo's is being toey. You think they will untwist their knickers long enough to work with you?” He shook his head at his own question. The magical hospital zealously guarded its monopoly and the trustees either swept away or stepped on criticism, an attitude than caused innovation to lag. Hermione had poached several young Healers disaffected with the lack of resources for research.

“Eventually.” Hermione had honed her patience in the Wizengamot. Outlasting the medical brethren would be a doddle compared to passing legislation. She'd taken a step back from the Flint Seat on Theo's advice to ease their long-term strategy. Losing on some minor bills was irksome but 'eventually' would arrive faster if they didn't try to hammer through every law.

“Will Doc Ock and I be down here until he is ready for Hogwarts?” Marcus quirked a corner of his mouth.

“Please don't encourage our son to call his brother names.” She chastised. Their elder boy loved cartoons particularly ones featuring superheroes. The contagion had spread from Frank Longbottom, who had been introduced to Spiderman by his Muggle grandfather.

“He needs no encouragement.” The proud father of a very adventurous five year old kissed his wife and whispered. “Gryffindor.”

“I think it more likely the combination of paternal indulgence and sugar.” Hermione assayed a frosty tone, though her smile foiled her attempt. Marcus was brilliant with the children and Septimus was an inquisitive boy. His efforts to break himself were fairly typical of his developmental age.

“And when he is Sorted into the lion's den, what will you say?” Marcus would have liked to cuddle to persuade his witch that he was right but they were at her place of work and a certain amount of decorum was essential. “A small bet perhaps? If Septimus goes into Gryffindor, with the caveat that this wager only applies if we send him to Hogwarts, you and I will sneak off for a dirty weekend.”

“If Septimus is not Sorted into my House then you will, in an official rec League game, wear Gryffindor colours prominently. Red underpants or socks do not count.” She stuck out her hand and they shook on it. “Three to one odds in my favour. I might ask Luna if she still has her lion hat.”

“The only pu....” He was about to make an extremely inappropriate comment when someone else tapped on the door. It was Muggle security glass reinforced with privacy charms, so the glass was one-way even if the charms were dispelled. Marcus answered the knock and escorted Luna with a small bundle into the clinic.

“Who told them?” The blonde witch demanded brusquely. “We had to split up at the station. Harry said he would distract the morass by trying to get in the front door.” She joggled the swaddling when the newborn began to cry. “This would be much easier with a Floo.”

“We're still waiting on approval.” Hermione held her hands out for her god-daughter as Luna's hair darkened. The witch hastily loosened her robes as she filled out then licked her teeth. 

“I can still taste the Polyjuice.” Millicent complained. Eau de Luna had been fruity but the under-notes of the potion had turned her stomach. “Lucian and the other wizards are in position at the Leaky. Hannah said she'd let them know to move in to distract when we get word from Higgs. They've left Wiltshire.”

“We don't know who told. Possibly no one leaked the information. It's public knowledge Malfoy Senior was released last week.” She answered Millicent's first question as she soothed baby Lily. Hermione had been very careful in her hires and had included confidentially agreements in the employment contracts for everyone involved in the clinic. Lamentably, the wizarding world ran on gossip.

“Luna said she'd be Godiva. I honestly thought she was talking about the chocolates.” Although she was a half-blood, Millicent had grown up with minimal contact with the Muggle world. Her husband had explained the folk-tale. “We said, twice, that wouldn't be necessary.”

“She'd do it.” Hermione smiled at the mental image. Luna had proven with several intrepid expeditions that she was fearless. Horse riding naked wouldn't daunt the witch who had faced down a Peruvian Vipertooth with a broken wand.

“I don't doubt it.” Millicent sighed, too tired to explain that grand gestures shouldn't be the first resort. She felt guilty that Harry was thrown into the mire to fend off the reporters while she snuck in quietly. “I could've treated Malfoy at the Manor. He doesn't deserve everyone scurrying about to help him.”

“No one will disagree with that.” Marcus remarked from the play-mat as he returned to entertaining Octavian. Draco was a friend but his father merited little kindness. He had dragged them all into a war, twice, then had betrayed his comrades to save his own skin. Twice.

“Narcissa asked as a personal favour.” Before Octavius Flint had died, Hermione would have likely left Lucius to rot but seeing her father-in-law's decline and the pernicious after-effects of Azkaban had moderated her stance. “Plus scanning him will give us invaluable research data.” She kissed Lily when the baby started to fuss. “I think she's hungry.”

“I'll feed her in my office.” There was a little preening in that statement. St Mungo's had fired her as soon as she had informed her boss she was pregnant. No negotiation, no maternity leave, and while she could apply for a job again there were no creche facilities. Comments made to her by Healers during her second pregnancy had crystallised Millicent's resolve not to return to the magical hospital.

“Will Malfoy's scans help Livia?” Marcus asked once his cousin was out of hearing. She knew, of course. However, he didn't want to air his concerns publicly. At seven, his eldest child remained very sensitive to magic. Her own accidental manifestations didn't trouble her and neither did the house elves but everything else did.

“I think so.” She was cautiously optimistic. “With the scans from the Squib volunteers, we have an excellent baseline for neurological pathology. The active EEGs need some fine tuning.” Which would have to wait on replacement electrodes after they burnt through their entire stock testing patients casting simple First Year spells. “There isn't anything wrong with her.”

“She fainted when Frank broke the window.” Neville's son was having a lot of trouble with accidental magic, something he had inherited from the Abbott side of the family. Hannah had swapped all her crockery for plastic once her plates were more Reparo than clay. Frank had yet to shatter Tupperware.

“Her core and reserves are still maturing.” Hermione reassured. She was hopeful. They did have to face the prospect of not being able to send their eldest to Hogwarts, or any other magical school, if she remained so susceptible. However, they had years to find strategies for Livia. “We have options.”

“I do not want her to hate school as much as I did.” Marcus was aware of his own failings. Mostly he didn't give a damn. That thick skin had built up over years of bruising and frustration, however. “She's clever and she works so hard. Cresswell is pleased with her progress. Barring the obsession with Lego.”

“I told you not to walk barefoot in the playroom.” Sitting down beside her husband, Hermione leaned against him. He was big and strong and determined, and didn't like problems he couldn't face down or intimidate. “What's bothering you, really?”

“I want her to be happy.” He told the waiting room while concentrating on showing Octavian how to make his toy make different noises. “I have no fu... functional clue how to do that.”

“Be there for her. Be involved.” She hugged him. “You're a great dad. All you really need to do is make sure she knows she has your love, trust and support.” Hermione nudged him, as usual achieving little physical shift. She had hope she'd managed some mental movement though.

“You're using your reasonable voice again.” Marcus smirked. He and Harry had snuck off to a parenting seminar sub rosa. He'd felt a complete fool, and they'd shared an awkward beer afterwards. Hermione's words reminded him of that lecture with the earnest dot points.

“I'm honing it for when I succumb to Tabia's urging to run for Minister.” Hermione mirrored the smirk, not saying more as she was interrupted by the chiming of her phone. The conversation was brief.

“Hannah?” He asked and got a nod. The plan to get the Malfoys into the clinic was simple. They were going to create as many distractions as possible to scatter the press then drive in via the underground car park, a remnant of the conversion from Art Deco shopping arcade.

Marcus stayed on duty in case any reporters stumbled across the subfusc door in the laneway. Hermione went to the pilastered front entrance to check if Justin Finch-Fletchley needed reinforcement. Shortly, Harry Potter would saunter by to be clamoured at for a statement on the elder Malfoy's release. Then a group of Slytherins would make a run on the clinic door, escorting a cloaked figure. Unnecessary drama but the Daily Prophet had reported his prolonged incarceration had robbed Lucius Malfoy of almost all his magic. Half the population of wizarding Britain wanted to gloat but had not yet been provided a photograph of Lucius abject.

Zavier Higgs had agreed to drive the Malfoys into London as a personal favour for Hermione and to spare his cousin Terrence from being press-ganged. There weren't many wizards or witches with driving licenses who would also be willing to chauffeur former Death Eaters. Terrence was no good in the decoy scrum but he could drive. Except Tamsin was due to have their first baby any day and the shy Slytherin was already a wrung rag.

So Zavier drove his BMW from Wiltshire to the clinic, smiling quietly to himself all the way. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. Malfoy knew he was a Squib, acknowledged solely because of Terrence's loyalty. A Squib delivering a crippled ex-con to a Mudblood's clinic.

The underground parking lot had been for dray deliveries then a bomb shelter then a general purpose storage oubliette. The Flints had owned the land and leased it, largely ignoring what the Muggles did with the property. The arcade had housed a series of small businesses, growing seedier and seedier until becoming entirely derelict some time during the early nineties.

The refurbishments had included new ventilation and security systems so when Zavier paused at the anonymous roller door he needed only to press a button on the remote on his dashboard. His car had already been 'attuned' to the wards and his license plate registered with the Muggle surveillance system. He cruised into the brightly lit basement, idly ogling the vehicles already parked within and wincing at Hermione's dark blue Subaru. Yes, it was safe and reliable but he was a car snob and Madam Flint was rich.

The aforementioned witch was there to greet them when Zavier pulled into the bay by the elevator. He got out, opening the passenger door for the Malfoys. The gesture wasn't deferential. Draco had no idea how to operate the handle. It took him two goes to get the seat belt.

Between them, wife and son helped Lucius to his feet. He was wan, too thin and sufficiently ill that his pride allowed him to accept the offer of a wheelchair. Hermione limited herself to brief polite conversation during the elevator ride, becoming more clinical once they were in the consulting room. She had explained the procedure to Draco when Marcus offered her help but she explained it again for the sake of the elder Malfoys.

Lucius nodded at intervals already flagging from the exertion in simply getting to the clinic. Narcissa listened fiercely then demanded to see images from a MRI. Hermione complied, handing her the touch pad so she could watch the explanatory video. To avoid questions of patient consent, it was Hermione's own scan with a voice over.

“The curse damage, it's quite obvious.” Narcissa looked up from the moving image of a witch's abdomen to regard Madam Flint sceptically “Why is this better than diagnostic charms?”

“The charms depend on the focus and skill of the caster. With this technology, we can have the same accuracy every time. There is no resistance from the patient's own magic, which can be considerable depending on the circumstances.” Hermione didn't feel the need to point out personal hostility also played a factor in the provision of magical medical attention. It was difficult to hold a healing spell when you sincerely wanted the other person dead.

“You didn't save Octavius Flint.” The accusation was a blunt needle; more bruising than piercing. Narcissa had waited a long time to be reunited with her husband. She didn't want to lose him.

“He didn't want to be saved. If he'd received proper treatment after his incarceration perhaps the long-term psychological effects could have been avoided. The stigma of Azkaban discouraged ex-convicts from seeking medical help.” Hermione spoke the rote reply, formal and cool. “Magic sustain us and our will sustains our magic. If there is a break in that feedback loop, we decline.”

“The potions aren't working, Mother.” Draco said with smothered force. He had insisted on trying the new option after their private Healer's lugubrious assessment of Lucius's chance of recovery. He wasn't going to let his father fade away.

“This Muggle device is only scrying.” Narcissa scolded, protective and wary. She knew her husband's health was fragile and his magic thin. She knew he wasn't responding to any of the tonics they had tried but surely they didn't need to despoil Lucius with this Muggle contraption.

“It is.” In a careful tone, Hermione confirmed Mrs Malfoy's statement, not bridling at the 'only'. “But we can see in real-time what is going on in Mister Malfoy's body, and our Healers can use the scan to guide them to better target healing. Azkaban depletes so much of a body's reserves that absorbing potions becomes difficult. The magic simply falls into the void within. By using Muggle methods, we can hopefully stabilise our patients to a point where their own energy begins to heal them. At which stage, we can switch to healing spells.”

Narcissa was not swayed but she pinched her lips together and sat silently while Hermione outlined what would happen today. Lucius said nothing, staring into the middle distance and flinching when the door opened. Millicent Potter and a radiographer escorted him to the diagnostic suite while the Malfoys waited in the lounge. They didn't speak.

“Not a damn word of thanks.” Hermione complained later to Marcus after the children had gone to bed. They sat in the blue parlour on the battered sofa watching clouds drift across the wallpaper. “We ran around like mad hamsters and none of them even muttered 'ta'.”

“We'll get an expensive what-not in gratitude or an invitation to some private do.” Marcus kicked off his boots and put his feet on the coffee table. Hermione eyed him. “Socks.” He remarked, prompting a noise of uxorial disfavour but no further chiding. “Being publicly grateful is servile.”

“We don't need any more knick-knacks and Narcissa's parties are always stuffy.” They went infrequently but always invited the Malfoys to the necessary formal events, which was acceptable non-snubbing in pure-blood circles. “Astoria is getting flak from her mother-in-law about Scorpius. There were comments made after the trip to the zoo.”

“They all had fun. The bugs were universally popular.” He and Jason had taken Livia, Septimus, Frank, Alice, and Scorpius to London Zoo mostly to get them out from underfoot. Morning sickness had hit Hannah hard and Octavian was teething. “Scorpius doesn't have many friends.”

“I got the distinct impression that Narcissa would rather her grandson be socially isolated than chums with undesirables” Hermione toed her shoes off and put her stockinged feet in her husband's lap. He obligingly started rubbing them. “It's the Gamps all over again. I think your aunts would actually rather you bonk groupies two at a time than be married to me.”

“If I didn't have legitimate children, the shrews would get a portion of my mother's dower. That all goes to Livia now, and my aunts have to share the Gamp bequests with her and Alice.” Marcus enjoyed smirking about that. His mother's family were no longer Sacred Twenty Eight as they were extinct in the male line but the witches remaining were unwilling to step down from the ivory tower.

“Is there any way to untangle all the trusts and vaults? I looked at them when I was expecting Livia. I started making a chart.” She sighed then moaned as Marcus found a particularly tense tendon. “You really do have wonderful hands.” Hermione blew him a kiss, unwilling to move from where she was loafing. “I'd give the whole mess over to Leota but she's got a lot on her plate campaigning for marriage equality.”

“If the Weasleys keep having sons and they marry witches, eventually they'll hold all the ancestral vaults.” He thought about his boys, their future and the future Madam Flints. “The trick is having a second son to marry off.” Marcus laughed when Hermione nudged him with her heel. “I'm not planning betrothals. That's traditionally the mother's duty. As Head of the House, I nod and pour myself a Firewhiskey.”

“It does bother me, having all the interconnection. Like we're all caught in the same web.” Shifting, she reached to put a pillow behind her and exclaimed when her hand contacted fur. A reproachful little face appeared in her eye-line. “I'm sorry, Hazel. Did Mummy disturb you?”

The three-quarters kneazle padded pointedly over Hermione's shoulder and settled on her stomach, a bundle of dark fur with splotches of orange. Her name came from the brown-green of her eyes now narrowed to disapproving slits. She turned her head away when the witch tried to pet her.

“We are married, you know.” Marcus told the feline. “No need to be the duenna.”

“Eight years. Twelve if you count the Marriage Law.” Hermione marvelled. For her part, Hazel ignored them both and went back to sleep on her sofa. “It doesn't seem that long. It's been lovely.”

“A haze of bliss, my lady?” He asked, sliding a fingertip up her sole. She shivered at the prolonged tickle of his touch then laughed when he leered at her theatrically. “Let's lose your chaperone and sneak off to a broom cupboard.”

Because of love and friendship and camaraderie and three children, Hermione smiled. She lifted Hazel carefully off her before settling the kneazle back on the warm cushion. The witch took her husband's hand and giggling at their own antics, snuck into a hall closet. Because life was good.

**Author's Note:**

> British English spelling, more or less.


End file.
